


You Won't Believe What Happens Next

by AuditoryCheesecake, uniqueinalltheworld



Series: Buzzfeed AU [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Advent Calendar, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Buzzfeed AU, Jewish!Dorian, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Secular!Bull, Smut, Team AU Advent Calendar Event, a very clickbait christmas, please don't try to figure out how the religious system works just go with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 31,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5331743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniqueinalltheworld/pseuds/uniqueinalltheworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Pavus started out on the wrong foot with his boss's secretary at Ameridan Press. What happened next will warm your heart. </p><p>A love story in three Christmases (and Hanukkahs).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Year One: He Thought His Secret Santa Forgot Him...

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Team AU's Advent Calendar Holiday Event!  
> We will be posting a chapter per day until December 24th. The story itself is linear, but loosely prompted by [this tumblr post](http://imaginal.tumblr.com/post/133680569491), and the AU was our own invention, but the idea to title the piece like clickbait came from [Here](http://hotguyhawkguy.tumblr.com/post/133521788874/from-now-on-all-my-fanfic-titles-will-be-worded).

The Iron Bull knew better than to get worked up over this sort of thing. People forgot things all the time. Especially things they were supposed to do for their secretaries. Most especially during the holidays. Still, it sort of stung when he got to his desk and found it empty but for his own papers on Secret Santa day. 

All around him, people showed off their gifts. Cassandra had cast off her usual hard-ass-Editor demeanor to gaze starry-eyed at the collector’s editions of her favorite book series. Sera had gone shrieking down the narrow alleyway of desks in the writer’s bullpen just moments ago, holding up a gift card and yelling something that sounded unnervingly like “gonna buy so many bees.”

Ah well. The season was about giving and not receiving, anyways, right? And Ameridan Press’s resident dwarven feature writer looked almost misty enough to cry as he gingerly tapped out a few phrases on his new vintage typewriter. Bull knew he had done well getting that for Varric. 

Krem sauntered by, stopping to plop a hot chocolate (seasoned with cinnamon and filled with marshmallows--Bull never ordered anything but lattes, but the new barista was so good, it sometimes seemed like the kid was reading minds) on Bull’s desk. Krem’s own quadruple espresso, iced even in the dead of winter, with just enough almond milk to keep him from actually vibrating as he drank it, was clutched in his other hand. Krem’s gift however, was conspicuously absent. 

“Krem! What did your secret santa get you?”

Krem flushed something Bull’s professor in art school had termed “fetid plum red.” “It wasn’t you, was it chief?”

Bull shook his head. “I got Varric,” he told Krem, jerking his head towards the aforementioned dwarf and his refurbished typewriter. “Why do you ask?”

Krem passed fetid plum and moved on to “funeral burgundy.” “Because I got a very nice strap-on for christmas.”

Bull gave a belly-deep laugh. “Is that what you’re being all embarrassed about?”

“Nah,” Krem answered. “The weird part was they knew my favorite brand.” 

Bull waggled his eyebrows. “Well, with any luck it was that new barista and--”

“What did _you_ get for Christmas, chief?” For some reason, Krem seemed in a hurry to change the subject. 

Bull shrugged. “Nothing.” He tried to sound nonchalant, and he mostly succeeded, but that hardly mattered to Krem. 

“Nothing?” Krem all but yelled, “You work your big gray ass off for this company every day of the year and they still don’t treat you with enough respect to--”

There was a great deal of shuffling around in the writers’ bullpen, people sticking their heads out over desks and from behind cubicles like a curious pack of mongooses. “Krem,” Bull grumbled in warning. 

“I’m just saying, chief, you run the show here. Just as much as Josephine.” Krem finished in a somewhat lower tone, jerking his head towards the glass door of the editor-in-chief’s office. “You deserve a really nice fucking gift.” 

“And I’m sure you’ll get me one,” Bull told him.

Krem rolled his eyes. “Yeah but that’s not the point right now, is it? You even helped me set up a present for the stuffy ‘Vint science writer, and the first time he met you he asked you to fetch him coffee.” 

“I fetch people coffee all the time,” Bull said mildly. “Plus I don’t think telling you to do that thing where you put a small box in a bunch of bigger boxes really counts as ‘helping.’”

“Yeah, but it’s not your job to fetch coffee or give gift wrapping tips, is it? You’re just that fucking nice. And he was an asshole.”

The phone rang. Bull held up a finger to Krem and answered. “Ameridan Press, Josephine Montilyet’s office. This is her assistant speaking, how may I help you today?”

“Err, is this the Iron Bull?”

“Merrill?” Bull asked.

“Yes, it’s me, hello. I know I don’t usually call you during work--oh I shouldn’t have called now, you’re always so busy. Mythal, what am I doing?”

“What is it, Merrill?” Bull asked when the receiver crackled as though Merrill were about to hang up on him.

“It’s about the rent,” Merrill said. “Oh, I really ought to have called quite a bit earlier. I was supposed to do it exactly at nine, but then I lost track of time and--” She always sounded nervous when she was talking about money. Well, actually Merrill always sounded nervous full stop. When Bull had first started renting a small metalworking studio from her for his art, he had worried that being a seven foot tall Qunari man was what was making her stammer and flush. Since then, however, he had seen her acting the same way with elves, dwarves, and once a mabari puppy.

“What’s wrong with the rent? I thought I was paid up through the month.” 

“Oh, you are. I'm calling because I’m supposed to tell you your studio space is paid up for the next year and er... it says here, I have a note, you see… Aha! I’m to 'never, on pain of death and dismemberment' tell you who paid for it. Signed... wait, I'm probably not supposed to read that part. Anyway, it’s a gift. You know, from your secret santa. He was terribly nice, too. Even when Fen’Harel slobbered all over him."

“Isn’t it sacrilegious to name your dog after a Dalish god?” Bull was too shocked to ask questions about his secret santa. Art studios like the place Merrill rented did not come cheap. The only reason that Bull’s came at all was through careful budgeting and a generous salary increase from Josephine. 

“No--Well, yes, a little bit, but Izzie thought it was funny and she’s just so cute when she--I’m going to hang up now, The Iron Bull. I hope you like your present.” 

“I do.” He said dumbly. Merrill hung up faster than Bull’s brain could manage normal speech and he wound up mumbling “Happy Holidays” into a dead receiver.


	2. Year One: We Turned Up The Heat On Their Christmas Party...

Sometime early on Friday morning, the heaters had gone on the fritz. The maintenance team, led by a maniacal dwarf who asked people to call him “Rocky,” had been tinkering with the system all day. They managed once to turn the heat _off_ on half of the floors in the building, but had eventually given up and decided to fix it over the weekend. This meant that the entire building was, in Sera’s colorful parlance, hotter than a rage-demon’s flaming balls. Dorian thought it was finally a reasonable temperature.

He also approved of the heat because it meant that the ugly Christmas sweater contest was canceled. There had been some agonizing over the decision, to be sure. It was an Ameridan holiday party tradition. But the Iron Bull had declared it “too damn hot” and taken off his horrific, jingle bell-adorned, LED-flashing, pompom-covered _monstrosity_. Dorian would put up with a lot more than a little heat to never see that thing again. It topped even last year's reindeer-humping horror.

As the evening progressed, and everyone got progressively drunker (Josephine always made sure they got the good stuff at staff parties), the Bull complained more and more about the heat.

Dorian was lounging by a window, appreciating the fact that snow was falling outside even though he was perfectly warm, a loud conversation caught his attention. The secretarial-- _administrative,_ he corrected himself firmly--team was occupying a corner of the room, and as always, everyone’s focus was on the Iron Bull. “It’s too damn hot!” Dorian heard him say, and then he caught the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric.

The Chargers (Dorian didn’t know why they called themselves that, and he didn’t think he _wanted_ to know) somehow got even _louder_. Dorian tried not to look too interested, but stole a glance over at the huddle of people. The Bull was standing up, _flexing_. He was _thoroughly_ shirtless.

Dorian had been aware of the Bull’s… impressive physique from the first moment of their acquaintance. Tall, broad, somehow simultaneously rugged and welcoming, the Bull was a far cry from the social climbers Dorian had encountered behind the desks at his father’s firm. Dorian found him far more appealing than any of the giggling bimbos who’d thrown themselves at him (and more successfully, at his father), so naturally, he’d panicked.

But, for all that he’d thrown up barriers and scolded himself over after-work cocktails, Dorian couldn’t look away from the posturing Qunari. He smothered the foolish smile he could feel twitching at the corners of his mouth. Buttercup Cadash, resident family columnist, ceased lounging against a snoring Cullen (their matched set of blonde, curly-haired, atrociously named children were being babysat for the night) long enough to kick him in the leg and waggle her eyebrows. 

“Enjoying the view?” She asked slyly.

Josephine, on Dorian’s other side, giggled. “You know Dorian, the Bull _is_ single.”

“And he’s good with his hands,” Buttercup’s eyebrows were beginning to worry him. “Have you seen those little origami animals he makes?”

Dorian resisted the urge to groan. “I’m starting to think you two are just trying to live vicariously through me. And even if _I_ were the sort to fudge rules of fraternization, Josephine, I’m fairly certain he still holds a grudge against me for my behavior early in our acquaintance.”

Josephine had the grace to look contrite, but Buttercup cackled, disturbing her husband slightly. “Don’t look now, but here he comes.”

Indeed, the Iron Bull was… strutting toward them. still shirtless. He stopped in front of Josephine and dramatically handed her a bright red daiquiri. “Complements of the bartender,” he said with an absurd wink, gesturing towards Blackwall, the sports writer--really, they ought to consider eventually hiring more than one-- who waved weakly from the table full of booze, nearly as red as the drink, before fleeing.

Dorian decided that this was a wonderful opportunity to replenish his own drink, and slipped away. He poured himself another of his “special” vodka tonics (the recipe was quite simple: it had only one ingredient and that ingredient was certainly not tonic) and considered leaving the party early. The Chargers continued to guffaw behind him, and the idea was becoming more and more appealing, when a massive form appeared beside him. It was the Bull, _still_ shirtless (Dorian thought perhaps he should resign himself to this not changing.)

Dorian was not immune to the Bull’s charms, not by any means. He walked by the man dozens of times a day, he was _very_ aware of his susceptibility. He knew that he was eye-level with the Bull when he was standing and the Bull was sitting in his bright pink, “ergonomic” desk chair, and that Bull towered over Dorian’s not inconsiderable six feet when he stood. He could hear the Bull’s booming laugh from his desk on the other side of the room, and it never failed make _something_ in Dorian’s stomach flutter.

Dorian did know about Bull’s origami animals, everyone in the office did. They were made of thin sheets of metal rather than paper, and Bull had given Dorian a dragon for his birthday earlier in the year. When Dorian had asked how Bull even knew, the man had simply smirked, done something approximating a one-eyed wink, and said “personnel files.” The dragon was sitting on a windowsill in Dorian’s kitchen, where it caught the light in the morning and made him smile.

The hand-knitted winged nug that Varric (it had to be Varric, right?) had given him might join it. It was kind of adorable, in a lumpy, pink sort of way.

So, yes, Dorian was very aware of the Bull’s charms. It was just too bad that Bull thought he was an asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The holiday sweater illustration was borrowed with permission from fischotterchen on tumblr. Go check out [her art!](http://fischotterchen.tumblr.com/tagged/fischotterkunst) It's all super cute!


	3. Year One: This Man Thought His Coworker Hated Him...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: there is sex under the influence of alcohol in this chapter. Neither character is meant to be more than tipsy, and both parties (enthusiastically) consent. Still, if that bothers you, you may want to come back for tomorrow's chapter instead.

Dorian poured some more vodka into his glass and tried not to concentrate on the shirtless mass of Qunari next to him.

The Bull contemplated the impressive array of alcohols with a sigh. “Y’know. Maybe I’ve had enough to drink.”

Dorian snorted. “Speak for yourself. At least two thirds of the bottles are still not empty.”

Bull swung towards him and squinted down with a small frown. “You’re not as prickly as you want everyone to think. I’ve seen you. I _know_.” He leaned down a bit into Dorian’s space, swaying a touch. Dorian was a little fascinated. He’d never seen the Bull be less than perfectly in control. “I know you got Sera that apiary gift card for Secret Santa. You’re more thoughtful than you pretend to be.”

“That’s not who my gift was for.” The Bull looked genuinely confused that he’d guessed wrong. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

“Well, I do know that you’ve been watching me. For a while now.” He was standing close, not quite towering over Dorian. Dorian took a long sip from his drink in order to avoid doing something inadvisable.

“It’s the shirts.” He said, “And the ties. I’m always waiting to see what new things you’ve taken and forced into an unholy union against common sense _and_ color theory.”

“We both know you’re full of it.” Bull’s smile was sharp. “I know a fuckton about color theory.”

“I need to get some air.” Dorian declared abruptly, and pushed past the Bull, heading for the little balcony near the water fountain, which was thankfully on the _other_ side of the floor from everyone else. He pointedly ignored that the Bull was following him.

He got to the balcony, and stared morosely at the snow piling up on the chairs and railing. Why had he ever moved to Ferelden? They had too much snow and couldn’t pronounce simple words like kvetch. Kvetching was an important part of Dorian’s life.

“Noticed a flaw in your plan?” The Bull leaned up against the glass, water bottle in hand. 

“Are you familiar with the phrase ‘to kvetch?’”

“It’s something all my favorite ‘Vints do.”

Dorian arched an eyebrow. “How many favorite ‘Vints do you have?”

The Bull smirked. “Well, there’s Krem, and Skinner sort of counts, and there’s this hot guy at work who thinks he’s all that.”

Dorian laughed. It was a kind of funny joke. “Right, I’m supposed to believe that you actually _don’t_ hate me?”

“Yeah.” Bull said, like he wasn’t rewriting all of Dorian’s assumptions about their interactions. “Or, no. I don’t hate you. You were an ass at first-- still can be-- but I can see right through all that sass to your gooey center.” Bull leaned right into Dorian’s space and poked a finger at his chest, mussing his carefully arranged scarf.

“Well _that’s_ hardly flattering.” Dorian tried to straighten his scarf. This was made difficult by Bull’s fingers, which were tangled in the fabric-- no, he was actually _rubbing_ it between his fingers. Like he was actually enjoying his proximity to Dorian. Like he was trying to get closer. 

“I could _be_ flattering, if you wanted me to.” Dorian eyed the Bull’s broad, warm shoulders. Shoulders that were slowly encroaching on his space, backing him up against the cold glass of the window. He shivered. The Bull leaned closer.

“How much have you had to drink?” That hadn’t really been what Dorian meant to say at all, but it was a fair question. This was edging up on the longest he’d ever talked to the Bull, and he wondered when the inevitable would happen and he’d say something offensive.

Bull chuckled. “Enough that I shouldn’t be driving but no so much that I shouldn’t be flirting.” 

Dorian was intimately familiar with that stage of drunkeness. He had spent the majority of his early twenties there. Was verging on that point tonight. “Is that what we were doing?”

“It’s either that or a lecture on color theory.” Bull was very close to him now. Breathing out swirls of mist that just brushed against Dorian’s mouth. Fuck it.

“It doesn’t have to be _just_ flirting, if you want.” 

“That so?” Bull leaned in, just a little bit. Dorian still had the choice, here. He could make a joke, back away, and something told him that Bull would chuckle and let the whole thing be forgotten. Dorian would regret that, though. Just slightly more than he was sure to eventually regret this.

“We’re going inside, though. It’s freezing out here.” Dorian led the way, startling when the Bull grabbed onto his hand. 

He had a moment to consider the fact that he wasn’t actually leading them anywhere _specific_ before he heard the unmistakable voices of Varric and Cassandra. He pulled open a random door and shoved Bull through, closing it quickly, but as quietly as he could. He listened, but they seemed to move past without having noticed. Dorian turned around examine his impromptu hiding place.

It was a small meeting room, which Dorian figured was slightly more dignified than a broom closet. The Bull actually giggled, and sat in one of the rolling chairs, spinning a bit.

Dorian stopped him by stepping between his legs and planting his hands on the arm rests. Bull looked up (not very far) with a grin. He was, apparently, a happy drunk. “Who knew that the Iron Bull was the sort to abuse office chairs?” Dorian teased.

“Spinning is their intended use,” Bull told him, “right up there with jousting.” He rolled away from Dorian and started spinning again. 

“You’re making it rather impossible to set a mood, you know,” Dorian folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “Be serious.”

Bull grinned. “So when you said more than flirting, you meant, what? International espionage?” But he stood up and walked unhurriedly back to Dorian. “Or something… more _hands-on_?” His hands slipped around Dorian’s waist.

Dorian snorted. “One more pun like that and I’m out the door.” He didn’t mean it in the least. Bull’s hands were wide and warm, even though he’d just been outside without a shirt. Dorian ran a hand up Bull’s chest and over his shoulder, stretching up on his toes to whisper against the Bull’s ear. “But if you’re able to restrain yourself…” He _felt_ the way the Bull shivered against him, and grinned triumphantly at the wall. It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one affected.

Bull had leaned down to listen to Dorian whisper. It put him just slightly off-balance, and it was only for that reason that Dorian was able to shove him into the wall behind them. 

Bull’s back hit the wall with a huff of breath, and he looked at Dorian with that single, wide eye. “That... was so hot,” he said breathlessly. 

Dorian just smirked at him and sank to his knees. Bull stared at him as though they had never quite been properly introduced. Dorian supposed they technically hadn’t. 

Well, no time like the present. He unzipped Bull’s pants (with liberal fondling) and glanced up. The Bull’s face was flushed, his eye a little glassy. “Is this alright?” Asked Dorian. He could feel the Bull’s erection against his cheek, so he figured he knew what the answer was. But, he prefered to know with certainty.

“Shit, yeah,” Bull breathed. He brushed a hand through Dorian’s hair (He was missing fingers. Why didn’t Dorian know that the Bull had missing fingers? Also how could he type so quickly without them?) and then moved to take Dorian’s glasses off. Dorian swatted his hand, ambiance be damned. He wanted to have a clear picture of Bull’s face when he remembered this.

“I know what I’m doing.” He told Bull, and caved to the impulse to pinch lightly at the inside of his thigh. The Bull startled, his hand falling to the back of Dorian’s head, but he nodded, a little breathless.

“Okay,” Bull said, voice rough. “You’re in charge.”

Dorian liked the sound of _that_ , and pulled at the waistband of the Bull’s boxers. He (magnanimously) didn’t say anything about the creepy smiling christmas trees, just licked his lips and pushed them down far enough to free Bull’s cock.

Dorian _did_ know what he was doing. The Bull was an enthusiastic and vocal partner as well, which helped things along quite a bit. Dorian leaned in, one slow inch at a time, enjoying the way Bull’s hand tightened on his hair but didn’t pull, and Bull’s thigh tensed slightly under his hand. Restraint, indeed.

Bull kept up a steady chatter, his deep voice pulling at something in Dorian. Some of it was in Qunlat, but Dorian was able to understand most of what he was saying. “Fuck,” featured heavily, often part of breathy exclamations: “you’re so fucking beautiful,” or “fuck me, you’re incredible.” Dorian sucked a breath in through his nose every time, the words hitting him like stones. He held the Bull against the wall, leaning heavily into him as he sucked. 

He moved his attentions downwards, mouthing at the underside of Bull’s cock. Dorian palmed his own erection, trying to control his arousal. He sucked at the juncture of Bull’s thigh with a kind of silent intent, hoping to leave a mark. Bull cottoned on quickly, but did nothing except stroke Dorian’s cheek in silent encouragement. “So good,” he rasped. Dorian muffled a whimper against Bulls skin and began to rub himself off in earnest, his dignity quite thoroughly forgotten and left elsewhere. 

He glanced up at the Bull’s face, though this angle was hardly ever flattering to either party. He had to see him. The Bull was staring right back, breaths fast and shallow. Dorian pressed his tongue against him and gripped the base of Bull’s cock, watching the way his eye fluttered closed. It was an intoxicating kind of power.

“Fuck, Dorian--” Bull came with scant warning and a low groan. Dorian could feel the man’s knees buckling slightly beneath him. Bull sat heavily and pulled Dorian into his lap, not even trying to fix his own pants. Instead, he replaced Dorian’s hand with his own, sliding beneath Dorian’s waistband to touch his skin. Bull’s nipped at Dorian’s ear, then at his neck, pressing wet lips and hot breath into his skin until Dorian was gasping. 

Dorian watched Bull’s hand moving on his cock until Bull bit at the start of his shoulder in earnest. Then he fell back against the Bull’s chest, and turned his face away as he came with a shuddering, too-loud breath.

“You’re fucking amazing.” Bull turned him around and kissed him then, a hand smoothing over his hair. Dorian started. He had, quite frankly, not expected to be kissed. Reciprocation, sure, that was par for the course, but nothing quite so intimate as kissing. And Bull smiled while kissing him, too. It gave his mouth a strange shape over Dorian’s, warm and alien and totally unpostured. 

It was the kiss, more than anything else, that sent Dorian shooting out the door.


	4. Year One: The Chargers Started Throwing Snowballs...

“Come on, Grim, you’re gonna want to get this on camera!”

There had _been_ a plan. The video was going to be titled “16 Fun Things To Do In The Snow” or something, and of course, like any video titled “16 Fun Things To Do In the Snow (You Won’t Believe Number 8!!),” it ended with fourteen abandoned ideas, three shitty snow drawings, and a giant, full-office snowball _war_.

Blackwall’s beard was caked with snow. Someone (Varric. It was Varric.) had shoved snow down Cassandra’s back and she had vowed revenge. The Cadash-Rutherford children were double-crossing little shits, and Bull regretted letting the tiny one (Desmond? Dustin? It was something terrible for sure.) use his horns as a sniper’s nest. Leliana, who presumably did...something for Ameridan, threw snowballs like she was assassinating people. Some of the mages were experimenting with melting the snowballs midflight for maximum splatter, and a few were freezing them into what could charitably be called “ice bullets.” It was utter chaos.

Sera ran by him, followed by Grim, holding a steadicam, and Dalish, with a boom over her shoulder. Bull left Cadash to deal with her own terrifying children and followed them.

They crossed the park to where Dorian and Vivienne were filming something more sedate and science-oriented. Bull wasn’t sure what. He hadn’t spoken to Dorian since the holiday party. He had _tried,_ but Dorian had not been alone with him often before, and made sure it hadn’t happened at all in the past few days.

Dorian saw Sera coming and threw up hands preemptively wreathed in flame--had Bull known he was a mage? He couldn’t think of it coming up in conversation, but why would a mage ever want to leave Tevinter?

Sera must have known, though, because the fire didn’t affect the massive bucket of snow that she hurled at Dorian. It wound up in his hair, on his moustache, and sliding down his front. Dorian looked absolutely livid. 

He stormed over, and Bull thought he could see actual steam rising off him, (because, apparently, magic). Vivienne looked on, concerned, but didn’t step in as Dorian bore down on a hysterically laughing Sera. 

“Vishante kaffas, why would you do that?” Dorian angrily wiped the snow off his hair. Bull stepped up next to Sera, and into range of Dorian’s ire. Dorian turned the full force of his glare on Bull, and in the movement, saw Grim and the camera behind him. Bull put a hand out just as Dorian took a step past him, and something about the movement made his bad knee give way with a painful twist.

He went down with Dorian under him, and they landed with a thump on the snow.

“Shit! I didn’t mean to do that.” Bull’s knee throbbed where it pressed against the cold ground. Dorian was on his back, winded and angry. He glared up at Bull, cheeks flushed.

It was hardly the best moment, but Bull was painfully aware of how beautiful Dorian was, his eyes flashing and chest heaving. His thick-framed glasses were slightly askew, and Bull’s gaze was drawn to his mouth, memories of just what that mouth could do at the front of his mind.

Sera whistled, loud and piercing, startling them both. Dorian pushed a hand against Bull’s chest and twisted his head to look at Grim. “Turn that damn camera off.” Dorian growled.

“You sure, Dorian?” Bull was acutely aware of the places his legs were touching Dorian’s thighs. “We could give them quite a show.”

“Bull.” His voice was icy. “Get off me.”

Bull leaned back and Dorian got up quickly. He brushed snow off his arms with a venomous glare at Sera, who was still snickering, and stalked away from the group.

Bull clambered to his feet, dusting snow off his legs. His knee twinged painfully as he straightened. Dorian disappeared around the side of the building, the back of his coat still covered in snow. “I should probably go apologize to him.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best thing right now, dear.” Vivienne put a hand on his arm. “He prefers to regain his dignity in private.”

“Well then I probably shouldn’t yell after him, should I?” 

Vivienne quirked a single, perfect eyebrow, but allowed him to carry on.

He tried not to limp as he rounded the corner, and leaned against the wall for a few deep breaths when he knew he was out of sight of everyone else. Dorian was sitting on a bench, kicking at the snow like it was responsible for his embarrassment.

He got up when he saw Bull, and came over with an uncomfortable expression on his face. “I’m sorry I reacted like that.” He said as Bull opened his mouth to apologize.

Bull stared at him. He couldn’t think of a time in their acquaintance that Dorian had apologized to _anyone_ , not even Vivienne or Josephine. 

“I’m just not used to…”

“Yeah, I know.” Bull rubbed at the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t have said that, though. It wasn’t respectful.”

They both trailed off into awkward silence. “Well,” said Dorian, “Would you look at that druffalo. Really pulls the whole room together, don’t you think?” He gestured broadly to the empty space in front of him. 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” Bull blurted. Dorian looked at him askance. “What? I haven’t. It was fucking hot.” Dorian’s mouth, the star in many of Bull’s recent fantasies, quirked in a self-satisfied way. Bull licked his lips. “Y’know, we could do it again. With more… planning?”

Dorian looked cautious, but didn’t stop him from talking. 

“I’m not suggesting dating, or anything.” He wanted to suggest it, but Dorian, skittish and beautiful and so far from attainable, didn’t need to know that. He didn’t strike Bull as a ‘commitment’ sort of guy. “More like, friends, who occasionally have mind-blowing sex.” For Dorian, Bull could live with that.

Dorian stroked his moustache with a smirk. “That sounds… pleasant.” Bull swore he was going to get a more emphatic adjective out of him soon.

“I think so.” He stepped into Dorian’s space and brushed a lingering clump of snow out of his hair. He was powerfully reminded of the last time he’d been in this position, pressed up against a wall, Dorian’s clever fingers pressing against him. He grinned down at Dorian, who was looking up at him with the same heated expression that he’d had just before he’d sunk to his knees and… Bull cleared his throat. “So, you think you’d be into that?”

Dorian wrapped his hands in Bull’s scarf and pulled him into a searing kiss. His lips were cold against Bull’s but his breath was hot, and Bull responded eagerly. He wrapped an arm around Dorian, pressing their bodies together, savoring Dorian’s scent and the feel of him. Dorian kissed like he was on fire, mouth open and fingers grabbing, and Bull smiled against him while he drank it in, one hand against Dorian’s cheek. Dorian leaned back for a breath and Bull stared down into his bright grey eyes.

He was going to enjoy this.


	5. Year One: His Flight Was Cancelled...

Dorian had scheduled his flight for Christmas Eve because no one else ever did. He hadn’t taken the weather into account though, and he got all the way to the airport before he realized his flight might even be delayed. He rushed to the departures board and… fasta vass. There was his flight, Thorn 138 to Quarinis, and next to it, in bright red capital letters, “CANCELLED.”

As he stared at the board, he realized he was actually rather relieved. He texted Felix, who no longer had to meet him at the airport, and figured he could tell the rest of his family the news later. Livia and Alexius would be disappointed.

He called the cab company next, hoping that there would be an unassigned driver somewhere near the airport. No such luck. Whoever had driven him here was already long gone, presumably with a slightly luckier would-be passenger in tow. Perhaps he could get a story out of this. “Ten Tips for Starting Your New Life in an Airport Terminal Over the Holidays?” “This Hack Reporter’s Holiday Flight Was Cancelled. You Won’t Believe How Many Overpriced Sake Bombs He Drank at the Bar!” Dorian was sitting on his suitcase, calling every car service he could think of, when a shadow fell over him.

“Dorian?” 

His heart absolutely did not skip a beat. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be baking manger cookies or trimming a Christmas halla or something equally non-secular?”

The Iron Bull shrugged. “I was going to pick Krem up but his plane’s stuck wherever. Plus I had a pretty religion-neutral upbringing.”

Dorian was not suddenly overwhelmed with relief just because he heard a familiar voice.“Yes, delayed planes seems to be a theme tonight.”

“You need a ride?”

Dorian weighed his options. (“Five Options Man Pretends to Have While Stranded at Local Airport!”) “Sure, why not?”

The Bull took Dorian’s suitcase, and no matter how he argued, refused to give it back.

The cab of Bull’s truck was neater than Dorian had expected, some sort of Chevy pickup (Dorian didn’t know the names of all these Fereldan trucks) that was big enough for the Qunari, and about three other people besides. Dorian should have expected the pair of fuzzy pink nugs swinging from the rearview mirror--they looked eerily like his secret Santa gift, and he felt something clench beneath his ribcage.

Bull’s hand rested easily on the console between them. It was the hand with all five fingers. Dorian knew which was which now. He’d had plenty of time to figure it out while he and Bull explored the various ways they fit together. Those hands had been practically everywhere on Dorian’s body. Now he sat with his arm bathed in sunshine from outside, the kind that made the weather seem much warmer than it really was.

Traffic was slow on the highway, and Bull drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the Ramones while they crawled along. (“Six Ways The Iron Bull Could Use His Hands Right Now That Would Seriously Endanger Everyone Around Us” entered Dorian’s mind.)

Once they got away from the airport traffic, Bull told Dorian stories about his friends, the conference Krem had gone to, apparently anything that came to mind. Dorian was happy to listen, and watch the way Bull gestured one-handed as he described the place he grew up, the way Josephine had hired him, some brighter parts of his time in the Army. Dorian had always liked the sound of the Bull’s voice. It had been a part of the background office chatter since Dorian’s first day at Ameridian. He got used to timing his breaks and meals around Bull’s cheerful morning greetings and calls for coffee orders. Lately, he was enamored of Bull’s voice in the bedroom, the way he could shift from quiet praise to utter filth to a fascinating, heady mix of the two that set Dorian’s heart pounding. Dorian liked to kiss the Bull quiet, to swallow his groans and fill the spaces between Bull’s breaths with his own. In those moments, with the Bull’s hands on him and their bodies pressed together, Dorian would imagine that there was nothing else in the world, that Bull’s words were only for him.

A flashy BMW cut across the lane in front of them, startling Dorian out of his wistful reverie. Bull slammed on the horn and stuck his arm out the window, flipping them off with an aggression that Dorian wasn’t used to seeing. The Bull could be imposing, sure, when he wanted to be, but it had never occurred to Dorian to be frightened of his broad shoulders and huge hands. The old prejudices about “savage” Qunari might be fashionable in Tevinter, but the few Dorian had ever met had all been preferable to a good number of humans that he’d encountered. And with the Bull-- Dorian had always found him magnetic.

As they came into the city, traffic slowed down again, and they wound up stopped at a red light next to a dusty minivan. A little elvhan girl pressed her face to the back window and blinked owlishly at the Bull, and Dorian saw her eyes widen as she watched him. Bull noticed her too, and waved with a grin. Dorian wondered if he waved with his uninjured hand on purpose, and felt an unhappy tightness in his chest. The girl waved back at Bull hesitantly, then with a bright smile, and kept waving until the light turned and the van pulled away.

Dorian’s own hands sat laced tightly in his lap. There were... what? ten inches? between his left hand and the Bull’s right. It had been a long time since Dorian had felt anything at all about not being permitted to hold another man’s hand. He knew better than most how foolish it was to waste energy on wanting things he could not have. 

Still, he looked at Bull’s hand, awash in the false promise of winter sunlight, and wanted.


	6. Year One: They Got Snowed In...

It had been snowing on and off for _days_ , since the day after Christmas. The Bull’s jokes about how they hadn’t seen the sun all year were wearing a bit thin. The snow began to fall in earnest as they neared Bull’s apartment, and Dorian pulled his scarf tighter around his ears and neck.

Bull was wearing a massive fluffy parka (hood down, of course) and looked like he didn’t care in the least that snow was beginning to settle on his horns. He had a lumpy red scarf wrapped around his neck, and it still managed to trail down his torso. “Krem made it,” he told Dorian, “It was one of the first things he finished. He keeps threatening to knit a better one.”

“Krem _knits_?” Dorian tried to picture their near-hypermasculine receptionist softly clicking away with foot-long steel needles...actually, that made quite a bit of sense.

“All the time. Scarves, hats, sweaters, lately he’s been doing all these little stuffed animal patterns. He won’t show me his hallas until he gets the horns right, he says.” Well then, Dorian thought as they finally got out of the snow. That was one mystery solved.

Dorian followed Bull into the elevator, and they stood close together, hands never quite brushing as Bull chatted with one of his neighbors. Bull waited for her to leave before he wrapped an arm around Dorian. Dorian tired not to meet the wistful eyes of his own reflection in the door.

“Snow’s coming down hard.” Bull commented while he pulled off his coat. Dorian hung his own scarf and coat in Bull’s hallway closet, on the hanger that he preferred to think of as his. He dropped his gloves on the little table next to Bull’s mail--where he always put them-- and headed to the kitchen, where he retrieved a bottle of wine from the shelf in the refrigerator where they always were. Bull toed off his shoes next to the couch while Dorian poured them each a glass.

The snow had started to pile on the windowsill, and Dorian looked out at the dark sky. It was barely past five o'clock. Frankly, he was disgusted. He stood at the window and watched the now-familiar view of Bull’s street, cars moving slowly down the road with headlights on, people rushing home with their hoods up and bags clutched tight.

Bull came up behind him, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s waist, pressing his chest to Dorian’s back and his lips to Dorian’s neck. “Doesn’t look like it’s gonna stop snowing anytime soon.” He said. Dorian leaned against him with a small sigh. “You want to stay over?”

“I don’t suppose I have many options,” Dorian answered, putting down his wine down. “The buses aren’t likely to run if the roads stay this awful.” It was easy to say. So, so much easier than the truth. So much easier than _I think maybe I..._

“In that case, we’ve got some time on our hands.” Bull was grinning at Dorian as he backed away from the window. Dorian turned and followed him, only to watch Bull trip over the shoes he had left on the floor by the couch and land hard on his ass. 

Bull looked up at him from the floor and burst into laughter. Dorian felt himself starting to snicker too. It was unthinkable to him, but Bull seemed not the least bit angry or humiliated. Dorian reached out a hand, thinking he would help pull Bull up. Instead, Bull tugged him down and Dorian went, unsteady from laughter and something else. He hardly even realized that the Iron Bull made sure to catch him before he hit the carpeted floor. 

He righted himself, straddling the Bull’s waist, hands on either side of Bull’s head for balance, then bent down to kiss him. 

Bull grinned lazily at him as Dorian pulled himself away, his hands slowly moving up and down Dorian’s thighs. “Is this alright?” Dorian asked when Bull didn’t surge up after him.

“Sure,” Bull was still smiling. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

“I am quite enjoyable,” Dorian answered. He edged his fingers under his cardigan and pulled it off slowly, Bull’s hands trailing over the waistband of his pants. He briefly struggled as a button caught on his glasses, and Bull chuckled. Cheeks heating, Dorian pulled it off over his head and glared at him.

“Sorry,” Bull’s thumb rubbed circles against his hipbone. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just cute.”

Dorian was flabbergasted. He hadn’t been called cute since… he couldn’t remember _ever_ being called _cute_. “Well,” he muttered, “if you want me to be able enjoy my view too…”

The Bull looked delighted. “You actually need those to see? I never realized that!” Dorian made a disgruntled noise and Bull grabbed his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “Krem thinks they’re one of those empty fashion statement things you ‘Vints do sometimes.”

Dorian watched Bull’s lips trail over his fingers, breath warm against his skin. “No fashion statement is ever _empty_. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring up other men while I’m trying to seduce you.”

“Sorry.” Bull smiled again and closed his lips around two of Dorian’s fingers, not looking sorry at all. “I’m already thoroughly seduced, don’t worry.” Dorian wondered if something was wrong with his brain, that rather than finding that foolish, all he could focus on was the slide of the Bull’s tongue against his fingertips. That a part of him, a small, yearning part that Bull seemed intent on encouraging to grow bigger, wanted to answer him, _me too._

They were lying on the floor next to the couch, still mostly dressed, and all Dorian could do was kiss the man beneath him. _I think maybe I..._ Bull tugged Dorian’s t shirt over his head, grinning at the brown skin he revealed.

Bull yanked off his own shirt with far less ceremony. Their pants followed with a significant lack of grace or finesse. Dorian and Bull both giggled. Dorian still found it strange, laughing while he had sex with another man. But Bull laughed. And smiled when he kissed him. And Bull...

Bull’s hands were back on his thighs, stroking with intent. He looked up at Dorian with something akin to wonder. Dorian liked to pretend that Bull only looked like that at him. 

“Hang on a sec,” Bull murmured, and rolled sideways beneath him. Condoms and lubricant materialized from somewhere underneath the couch, and Dorian tried very hard not to think about the frequency with which a man had to have casual sex in order to think that keeping unexpired condoms and lube down there was a necessity. 

Instead, he rolled his hips against the Bull’s, focusing on the rolling pressure between them, the way the Bull gripped his hip and squeezed tightly. When Bull crooked a finger at him, Dorian shifted forwards far enough to allow the Bull to prepare him. 

Bull was always gentle, taking the time to kiss Dorian and run a soft hand down his back. He treated Dorian like he was something precious, but not fragile. When Dorian asked for more, Bull gave without question, and trusted him to know what he wanted. Sometimes, that was enough.

Bull entered him slowly, allowing Dorian to set his own pace. Dorian took full advantage. Drawing his pleasure out with slow rolls of his hips. Bull never complained about the glacial pace when they were like this, just smiled up at Dorian like there was nowhere he’d rather be. 

Dorian was mapping Bull’s body closely. He would have liked to perform an extended study, to spend a week on the curve of his elbows, a month on the divots at the base of his spine. Instead, he rushed--seconds for his scarred fingertip, perhaps a minute on his angular cheekbones. Sometimes, Dorian felt the urge to write it all down. To make certain he would remember it.

One of Bull’s hands drifted away from Dorian’s hips and across his arm. Their fingers tangled together, and Dorian closed his eyes rather than look at where Bull’s hand covered his. He leaned his head back and arched his spine, focusing on blind sensation instead of the unbearable intimacy of Bull’s smile.

Bull came with a surprisingly breathy moan, then sat Dorian on the couch and sucked him off without being asked. Bull did a lot of things without being asked. He knelt between Dorian’s legs and held his hips firmly in place. Dorian twisted his hands against the couch cushions until one of them grabbed at Bull’s horn without permission. He looked down to meet the Bull’s eye, and felt a roaring in the pit of his stomach. He came without even a hoarse word of warning, but Bull didn’t complain at all. 

Bull carried them both to bed, after. He fell asleep with an arm slung warm across Dorian’s chest. Dorian laid awake a while longer, reminding himself not to move too close. Bull stirred in his sleep, curling closer to him in the bed, a breath of noise away from waking. Dorian felt the words pressing against his lips. _I think maybe I--_


	7. Year One: A Jewish 'Vint Tries To Make Christmas Cookies...

Bull woke up to the smell of something burning. He jumped out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen, struggling to pull his pants on as he went-- if the alarm started going off, he didn’t want to have to go all the way back to his room to get them.

Dorian was in the kitchen, leaning over the oven and cursing to himself, waving at the small trail of smoke that was wafting out of it. He was also wearing nothing except Bull’s “kiss the cook” apron, and while it was a beautiful sight, Bull was still a little preoccupied with the smoke.

Dorian pulled a tray of...cookies? out of the oven and dropped it onto the stovetop with a clatter and a dejected sigh. The smoke thankfully dissipated when he cast some sort of frost spell. Bull stepped up to the counter next to him and stuck a finger in the bowl of cookie dough.

He spat the dough out into the sink with a startled yelp. It tasted like… something awful. Not cookies. He’d didn’t realize something with sugar could taste this bad.

“How much salt did you put in this?” Dorian looked confused. 

“None? Why would you put salt in cookies?”

“Did you even look up a recipe?” Bull rubbed at his forehead and tried not to laugh. Dorian was looking a little prickly.

“It’s just sugar cookies!” Dorian waved at the dough with exasperation. “They’re supposed to be simple! I even made them into those little stars…”

They looked nothing like stars. Bull had read once that dying stars exploded, shooting plasma everywhere and then turning into pale hardened lumps of superheated lead. Maybe that was the type of star Dorian had been going for. Shit, Bull must be pretty far gone to find even _that_ adorable.

Come to think of it, Bull didn’t even own star-shaped cookie cutters. Most of his were gifts from either Krem or Sera, and therefore shaped like dragons or dicks respectively. “Have you _made_ sugar cookies before? At all?”

“I’ve frosted them.” He said, frostily. Bull chuckled at his own pun and Dorian looked offended. “Look, they have flour and sugar in them. What could I possibly have done wrong?” 

Bull didn’t even know where to start on that question. Dorian deflated a bit before him. 

“I just wanted to... do something nice. You know, to thank you for putting up with me.”

Bull tried not to act like he’d just been punched. “That thing you did with your tongue last night was pretty nice.” Dorian opened his mouth but Bull kept going. “And I’m not ‘putting up’ with anything.” 

Dorian huffed. “It’s not as if we’re dating, Bull, I hardly expect you to pretend--”

“Only because you don’t want us to be.” Bull didn’t mean the statement to come out with the bitter, jealous tinge to it. He hadn’t really meant it to come out at all. But out it was, and he supposed he was just going to have to live with that. He blew out a slow breath, rubbing his hand between his horns. “Fuck, Dorian. I didn’t mean to put all that on you, I just--” 

“You think I--” Dorian cut himself off sharply. Just stood there, naked and imposing and possibly about to run, wearing Bull’s apron and clutching a tray of the worst cookies Bull had ever had. Finally he turned around sharply, put the cookies down on the counter. He had tied the apron strings in a neat, fluffy bow just above his ass. Bull would have smiled at it had he not found himself suddenly quite unable to draw breath. “What if I did?” He asked once he’d turned back around again. 

“What if you did...?” This had to be some sort of trap. People wanted Bull for very specific things. Those things were typically Fetish Object, Brilliant Secretary, World-Class Typist, and Date Most Likely to Piss off One’s Parents. More or less in that order. People did not want Bull the Artist, Bull the Fucked-Up War Vet, or Bull the Man Comfortable with his Love of Pink and Woman’s Job. And they most certainly did not want to deal with all those things at once in Bull the Boyfriend.

Dorian blushed, just slightly. A marvelously controlled thing. “What if I did... want us to be?”

There was an odd swooping feeling in Bull’s stomach. He figured it could only be either the cookies’ vengeful return or genuine happiness. He smiled. It was something he could get used to. “I think I’d like that.”


	8. Year One: No One Salted the Sidewalk Outside of His Apartment...

It was snowing again, and Bull was trying not to hurry. In the time it had taken to cross town, he’d driven past three cars that had spun out and were partially buried road-side drifts, hazard lights blinking.

Bull had stopped to help the first car, because what was the point of a massive pickup if you didn’t use it to haul things and people that needed hauling, but he had places to be. Dorian had been dropping hints about the romantic dinner he’d been planning for _days_. A whole week if you counted the time he’d been pretending it was a surprise. Dorian was many things, but subtle wasn’t one of them.

It was just one of the things that Bull liked about him.

He coasted to a stop at a red light, alone on the street, just a block away from Dorian’s apartment.The sky had shifted from that stormy sort of darkness to true dusk, and most of the windows Bull could see were lit up from within, most still framed in cheery holiday lights. Dorian’s contained a magically enhanced, illuminated dreidel. 

Bull had to clear some snow out of the only empty space he found, but he did find a parking spot on Dorian’s block so he counted himself lucky. However, he hadn’t accounted for the patches of ice under the snow, and he fell on his ass _right_ in front of Dorian’s door.

Dorian, whom Bull had not expected to be a watching-at-the-window sort of guy, materialized within the time it took Bull to groan, shift, try to stand, and fall down again. 

“See, this is why you people ought to eliminate the entire season of winter,” Dorian told him. He was wearing an oversized, cream-colored sweater, blue-and-white leggings patterned with menorahs, and no shoes. Why wasn’t he wearing shoes? 

“Is this your idea of date attire?” Bull joked.

“I put on a suit first, but in consultation with a number of experts it was deemed ‘too formal.’”

Bull laughed. The movement made his bad ankle twinge. 

Dorian’s face twisted in concern. “How is it that you manage to fall down nearly every time I interact with you?”

“Maybe I’m just falling for you.” Bull waggled his eyebrows. 

Dorian blushed and leaned down to punch him in the arm. “Be serious.”

“I fucked my leg up in Seheron. Also this.” Bull held up his left hand, wiggling the three remaining fingers. Dorian was quiet for long seconds after that.

“Well, let’s get you inside before you freeze your little footsies off.” Bull grunted and hauled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian didn’t falter. “Why the fuck didn’t you put shoes on before you came outside?”

“I was concerned that my evening had been ruined in an inglorious and concussive manner.” Bull had noticed before that Dorian broke out the mental thesaurus when he was anxious.

“Aww, I didn’t know you cared!”

Dorian didn’t meet his eyes. “Of course I do.”

The elevator ride was thankfully warm, and Dorian hurried them into his apartment so he could put on wool socks.

Bull made for the table, already set up with candles and everything. Dorian had arranged the food to look like a fancy, home cooked meal, but Bull knew that Dorian didn’t know how to make his favorite pasta dish from Il Corvo. Plus, he had spied the surreptitiously thrown away takeout containers in the garbage as he and Dorian limped into the apartment. He chuckled under his breath. Dorian wasn’t really that good in the kitchen at all. It was cute.

Dorian was having none of it, however, and steered Bull towards his couch. He pulled over an ottoman and carefully lifted Bull’s bad leg onto it. He unlaced Bull’s boot and slid it off, gently rotating his ankle. Faced with Dorian kneeling in front of him, looking up with genuine worry in his eyes, Bull found himself a little speechless. Dorian took Bull’s other boot off and placed them by the door before dashing to the kitchen to grab the wine and glasses off the table. “We can eat in here.” He said, with a tone that brooked no argument. 

“Are you sure?” Bull said, with a glance at the white leather couch and immaculate coffee table. “I can sit in a regular chair, it’s not the end of the world.” In truth, it would make his already hurt leg ache and spasm, but there was very little that didn’t do that. He could live with it for an evening. 

“I am positive,” Dorian told him firmly. “Drink your wine, and I’ll bring out the first course.”

“Ooo, _courses_!” Bull teased.

“The salad, if you’re going to be an ass about it.”

“I think us southern heathens just call it ‘that there leaf bowl.’”

Dorian passed Bull his leaf bowl with an unnecessary amount of force. Bull kissed him on the cheek.

They ate dinner on the couch, somehow without spilling, and shared a bowl of ice cream with hot fudge. “I heated it myself,” Dorian said with a proud smirk.

“It’s perfect,” Bull told him. “I honestly couldn’t have done it better.” 

“That’s good,” Dorian said, “Because I honestly ordered takeout and lied about knowing how to cook. Also my microwave is now coated in fudge sauce.”

Bull took his hand, free and easy. “I know.” 

Dorian’s thumb brushed the back of Bull’s palm.

“Hey, Dorian.”

“Yes?”

“I wasn’t lying about falling for you.” 

“Shut up,” Dorian said, and kissed him. He was smiling.


	9. Year Two: They Settled In To Watch A Movie...

“Move over.”

“Make me.” Dorian was huddled under at least three of his fluffiest blankets.

“If you don’t move, someone’s getting sat on.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, and stayed stubbornly put.

“You asked for it.” Bull set the popcorn on the table, and scooped Dorian, blankets and all, into his arms. Dorian squawked in alarm and threw his arms around the Bull’s neck, clinging tighter and they dropped onto the couch, Dorian in Bull’s lap.

Bull kissed Dorian’s offended scowl into a soft smile and gave him the bowl of popcorn. “Now let’s watch some Christmas sap!”

“It’s not _just_ sappy,” Dorian said. He was trying to sound exasperated, but after almost a year of dating, Bull was able to picture the the smile that was coloring the words. “Love Actually is a touching story about the importance of love and family,” he read from the description on his phone.

“Of course.” Dorian would probably never admit that he liked to _snuggle_ , but Bull was happy enough to say it for both of them, and pulled Dorian closer against his chest. The TV lit up in front of them, and Bull settled back with a happy sigh.

Dorian had been working hard lately (12 Of The Most Adoptable Puppies You Didn’t Know Needed Homes is apparently both “science” and a very difficult video to film) and Bull thought he might doze off partway through the movie. It didn’t matter either way, in Bull’s mind. He got to cuddle with his boyfriend, and tease him over the parts that made him tear up. 

(Dorian, Bull had discovered, eschewed movie dates early in their relationship to hide the fact that he sobbed through most sources of media. And really, most of life. Bull wasn’t sure how he kept it a secret from most of his acquaintances, really. The Six Reasons Dorian’s Crying this Week article Bull was composing in his head included “googled minute leaf chameleons,” “was told his third paragraph could use some minor edits,” “ran out of pretzel chips,” “was given more pretzel chips,” “watched a baby sloth video after a hard day” and “remembered the time six years ago when he watched Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.” It was cute. In large part because Dorian always wound up thoroughly embarrassed. It was one of the many things that Bull-- Well. It was one of many things about Dorian.) 

And when Dorian fell asleep, Bull could hold him quietly on the couch in a way that he didn’t think Dorian would have the patience for when he was awake. Dorian was vibrant, and flashy, and never sat still unless he was bone-tired or actually unconscious, and Bull secretly enjoyed holding him in those moments.

It was a stupid secret, probably. Bull wasn’t sure _why_ it had turned into a secret at all. He wanted to tell him. 

Ironically, Dorian fell asleep during the noisy part with all the drums. Bull turned the volume down and carefully removed Dorian’s glasses, putting them on a side table before he turned the subtitles on and kept watching. Dorian breathed a soft noise and snuggled further into Bull’s arms. 

Sometimes, Bull suspected him of only pretending to be asleep. Tonight was not one of those times. Dorian’s breaths came soft and even, his hands curled slightly against Bull’s chest and he only twitched a little bit when the movie got loud. If he were awake, he’d be laughing, maybe crying, maybe both. Usually both. 

Dorian had declared _Love Actually_ one of the only tolerable Christmas movies (mostly thanks to Liam Neeson, Bull suspected, and perhaps Colin Firth), so it wasn’t the first time they’d watched it. Bull always liked the Prime Minister and his secretary the best, but maybe he was a little biased. Dorian refused to name a favorite (Bull suspected it was the writer. Dorian liked those huge sweeping gestures of devotion.)

Bull almost dozed off himself a few times, but managed to catch his favorite scenes: Natalie trying not to curse, _every_ scene on the porn sets, and even the disastrous foreign language proposal. 

That weird actor who was probably thirty (“he’s only thirteen in this movie,” Dorian’s voice corrected in Bull’s head.) but still looked like a little kid looked up at the reasonably-aged man playing his father. 

“Okay, Dad.” Said the kid, (and it was probably Bull’s favorite line in the whole thing.) “Let’s do it. Let’s get the shit kicked out of us by love.”

Bull looked down at Dorian’s sleeping face and smiled.


	10. Year Two: These Men Just Wanted To Buy Hot Chocolate...

There was nothing better than a huge mug of hot chocolate to make up for spending the _entire_ day outside in the blighted cold. Well, there were also hot baths and delightfully warm Qunari, but they were currently at their long-suffering favorite coffee shop with the Chargers and some other tag-alongs (Dorian was still shocked that Buttercup had him on her “babysitting roster,” and more shocked to learn it was because the little terrors _liked_ him), so Dorian contented himself with leaning against the Iron Bull and drinking his hot chocolate.

Well, he’d like to. “Calliope Mia Rutherford-Cadash, get off the counter this _second_.” Dorian hauled himself off the loveseat next to Bull and crossed the cafe with his most disciplined glare. The barista, who’d been trying to reason with the seven-year-old, fled as he approached. It was nice to know _someone_ was affected by his attempts to be intimidating. Krem laughed at him, Bull blew a kiss at him and Calliope… she kicked her heels against the counter and grinned at him, unrepentant.

“They put _food_ on this counter, Callie. They don’t want your snowy tuches on it.” She raised her arms, expectant, and he pulled her up, staggering a bit as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re getting too big for this.” He muttered. She was a small kid (half-dwarf, of course) but solid.

She giggled. “I’m just waiting for my tea.”

“What kind of seven-year-old drinks _tea_?” He grumbled. He turned to the barista, who was staring at him. It was probably the evil moustache. “I’d like your largest size of hot cocoa, please, with whipped cream, and chocolate shavings if you have them. Sprinkles if you don’t.” 

She moved with gratifying speed, glancing over her shoulder like she’d never seen a half-dwarven barnacle stuck to a fashionable Vint. “The Iron Bull gets me cocoa with marshmallows.” Callie informed Dorian with a serious expression.

“That’s because he doesn’t know any better.” Dorian said with equal gravity. Callie liked being treated like a grownup. “We’ll set him right.”

They waited while the barista steamed the milk. “Dorian, are you and the Iron Bull going to have babies?”

Dorian startled at that, and barista did too, spilling milk into the sink rather than pouring it into a cup. She started another carafe and raised her eyebrows at Dorian with a smirk; he must be very red. “It doesn’t really work like that, Callie.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “Miss Vallen isn’t teaching kindergarten next year because she’s having a baby. Kelsie said you had to be married to have babies but Miss Vallen has a boyfriend. Mom said you don’t have to be married, but it helps if you’re in love. I want to meet a baby that isn’t my brother, so you and Bull should have babies. You’ve been boyfriends for _ever_.”

“There’s more to having babies than just…” was he really about to have to explain conception to a seven year old?

“But you and Bull love each other, right?”

Dorian shifted her on his hip to avoid the tension that ran through him. Did they? They’d never said as much, in close to a year of “official” dating. (The anniversary of the holiday party had recently passed, thoroughly celebrated.) There were certainly _feelings_ , he wouldn’t deny that. But he’d never-- _Bull_ had never-- what if-- His breath caught tight in his throat. _I think maybe I..._

“If you love him, you should tell him,” Callie said, in a good imitation of her mother’s Editor Voice. “Dad says it’s important to tell people that you love them.”

Dorian wasn’t sure he wanted relationship advice from a seven-year-old, especially second-hand advice from _Cullen_ , but he nodded seriously as he passed Callie a few dollars so she could pay for her hot chocolate. “I’ll take that under advisement.” he assured her. She nodded at him while she carefully counted out the money and gave it to the barista. 

Dorian put her down, and took the cup. The barista handed Callie the change with a smile that was genuine even before Callie looked at Dorian for permission and then stuffed it all in the tip jar. 

Callie skipped back to the table while Dorian followed behind, careful not to spill the hot chocolate. She climbed into a seat next to Krem across the table, and Dorian settled back in next to Bull and Desmond, who refused booster seats when he could sit on the Bull’s lap. Dorian snickered at the face Bull made at the drink. “You’re corrupting this kid. Who the fuck puts whipped cream on hot chocolate?”

“Language!” Desmond was like a tiny version of his father, curly blonde hair and all. He glared up at Bull.

“Sorry, little dude.” He looked at least almost genuinely contrite, though Dorian saw the corner of his mouth twitch a little. 

“Well?” Calliope demanded. 

“Well what?” Dorian asked. 

“Tell him.” 

Dorian stared at her. She simply glared back.

“You are utterly my least favorite child.” 

“That doesn’t sound much like telling him.” Oh, Dorian was going to have Words with Buttercup about her daughter.

“Ugh, fine,” Dorian sighed dramatically and Callie grinned, triumphant. “Iron Bull,”

“Hmm?” Bull asked, glancing up from where he had been bouncing Desmond on one knee. And oh, how easy it was to think of him with their own impossible someday-son. Of Dorian being prompted to this by their hypothetical daughter.

“Marshmallows are appalling and destroy the integrity of the hot chocolate,” he said. 

Bull laughed. “Bullshit,” he said. “You just hate fun.” 

“Yeah, bullshit!” Said Desmond. 

Dorian groaned. “Now look what you’ve done.” Krem laughed and Callie raised a judgemental eyebrow at Dorian. Thankfully, she didn’t say anything while Bull shook with laughter and Krem backed up Dorian’s cocoa topping choices.

She was pulled into the debate quickly. Dorian wasn’t sure if she sided with him because she liked him or because she took any chance to argue with her brother, but the conversation was still going strong when Buttercup and Cullen turned up to collect their children.

There was a round of hugs and prompted (but not insincere) “thank-yous,” and Dorian found himself again faced with Callie’s Disappointed Face. “Dad says you can’t make people say what you want them to, usually he means me making him say it’s not bedtime, but I can’t make you tell Uncle Bull.” Was “wisdom” a strange word to assign to a rambling child? “But I think you should.”

“I think he knows, Callie.” 

“Knowing’s stupid. You’ve gotta tell him.” She waved as she left the cafe with her parents. Dorian waved back with a fond smile. 

Bull pulled him back onto the seat and pressed a kiss against his temple. “It’s cute watching you with her.” His voice held the tell-tale rumble of a smile, though Dorian couldn’t see his face. He didn’t say anything else, just slid his arm around Dorian’s waist and held him tightly while he talked with Krem.

Dorian leaned against him quietly and thought about Callie’s advice. From the mouth of babes, as they say.


	11. Year Two: We Put Mistletoe Everywhere...

Bull’s first clue came after the holiday party. 

Despite its secular name, the decoration and theme of the “holiday party” at Ameridan Press was obviously geared towards Christmas. There was a Christmas _tree_ for one, and someone in the executive office had declared menorahs a fire hazard (in fairness to them, one _had_ burnt down a good portion of Cassandra’s cubicle three years ago), so there wasn’t a corresponding symbol.

There were snowflakes hanging from the ceiling in most of the rooms, and Josephine had painstakingly stenciled a sleigh and reindeer across the wide glass wall that separated her desk from Bull’s. The maintenance team had tacked fake holly wreaths to most of the doors, and Christmas lights pretty much everywhere. There was also the mistletoe. It had started a few years ago as a prank on Buttercup and Cullen, but had evolved into one of those office traditions that probably looked really weird from the outside. It was work, of course, so no one _had_ to kiss anyone. Sera and Bull did a tango, for instance, and there were a few very elaborate series of bows and curtsies.

Bull had been quietly looking forward to mistletoe season (which wasn’t the entire time the other decorations were up, because they had to get _some_ work done during December) while dating Dorian. Dorian had recently, and rather _suddenly_ , become comfortable with tamer sorts of pda (more accurately, they’d now held hands more than once in a public space other than a dark movie theater), and Bull thought that being publicly affectionate in a safe place would be good for him. He’d also get to kiss Dorian during the day, instead of waiting the whole annoyingly long ride back to one of their apartments.

As he’d expected, Dorian loved the mistletoe. He was a more affectionate guy than he tried to let on, and Bull knew he liked the excuse to air-kiss with Vivienne and slap Krem on the back. 

The first time he kissed Dorian at work (well, aside from the _first_ time he kissed Dorian) was on the way out after they’d both stayed late, and there was no one else in the office. He’d stopped in the door and pointed up at the little sprig with a smile, and Dorian had thrown himself into Bull’s arms like he thought Bull would disappear. Bull had wrapped his arms around him with a smile, because how could you not smile when Dorian Pavus looked at you like _that_ , and let himself be pushed up against the door frame, Dorian’s lips warm on his own.

Then it began to invade Dorian’s apartment, the weird little poison berries hanging dangerously close to the dining table, adorning both the upstairs and downstairs landings. Bull even found a sprig of it in Dorian’s bathroom. It was excessive, sure, but for the first little while Bull wasn’t worried.

When Bull came home to find mistletoe in every room of his _own_ apartment, he knew it was time to have a talk.

“Dorian,” he said cautiously, putting his boyfriend down after their enthusiastic “hello” kiss, “it’s not that I don’t enjoy kissing you, but what the fuck is up with the mistletoe?” 

Dorian flushed. “You... noticed?”

Bull looked pointedly at the sprigs above the door to the entry. And the area above the stove. And just inside the hall closet. “Yeah. A little bit.” 

“I just... thought it made things a bit more festive.” Dorian was red enough to be a Christmas decoration himself at this point. Bull’s art school professor would have termed the color “Santa Flesh.” He had been kind of a weird guy. 

“You don’t even celebrate Christmas,” Bull said softly. 

Dorian walked to the couch and sat down with a sigh. “No, but... I do celebrate--never mind. It’s foolish. I’ll just-- I’ll take it all down soon. Just give me a moment to--” Bull had not been seeing this man for over eleven months--the longest romantic relationship of his entire adult life, thank you very much--to not know when Dorian was about to cry. 

Saying he didn’t know _why_ Dorian was about to cry was a bit like saying water was wet, however. 

Bull knelt in front of Dorian and fuck his bad leg straight into the void. “Dorian, sweetheart, please talk to me.”

Dorian sucked in a shuddering breath, trying to get ahold of himself. Bull stayed where he was, his hands resting on Dorian’s knees. 

“You know,” Dorian said softly. The tears were coming now, though quieter than Bull had expected. Near silent but for the slow patter as they fell from Dorian’s chin to his chest. “When I was a boy, we could never have persimmons in the house? Whenever my mother brought them home from the market, I would eat the whole lot of them that very day. I ate persimmons until I got sick and they felt heavy on my tongue. And finally my mother stopped buying them. Even for special occasions. I suppose she felt I couldn’t be trusted with the responsibility of moderation.”

“Well that’s...shitty,” said Bull. He had the sudden overwhelming feeling that he was traversing a minefield. 

“What I’m telling you is that she was right,” Dorian was staring at his hands rather than making eye contact with Bull. “I have... immense difficulty when it comes to keeping good things around. I tend to get carried away and usually that means that all the good things end up gone.” He looked up. “Do you understand what I’m saying to you at all?”

“I’m not a fruit, Dorian.” Oh, Bull could write a feature-length essay on why that was the wrong thing to say just then but it was so much better than nothing at all. “You can’t just eat all the love out of me and have it be gone.”

Bull felt Dorian stiffen beneath his hands at the word _love_ but neither man mentioned it. 

“I’m afraid...” Dorian croaked. “I find myself concerned that all this--” he gestured, encompassing Bull, Bull’s tacky sweater, Bull’s aching knee, “--is rather temporary. And... well. If it is. I suppose I’d prefer to know now and leave with good memories. You know, before I get... overly attached.” 

“This isn’t temporary.” Bull was certain. Surprised to find he’d never been more certain of anything in his entire life. Surely that meant something.

“In that case, would you mind terribly if we kept the mistletoe up? It is rather seasonal, after all.”

“We can do whatever you want with it,” Bull answered. 

Dorian kissed him, and he was smiling. 

Bull smiled too, began composing a grocery list in his head; he was buying persimmons tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you all know, Santa Flesh is a real color and it is horrifying.


	12. Year Two: A Tevinter Mage Went Skiing...

They _were_ going on a romantic getaway this year and Dorian wasn’t about to let work get in the way of that. He’d booked them a room in a well-reviewed ski lodge with a wonderful view of the Frostbacks, and they were going to enjoy it to the absolute hilt.

Dorian was determined. Bull, on the other hand, seemed determined to ruin it. “I know we have reservations soon, babe, I just need to call the office and check in.”

“Josephine gave you three _weeks_ off, Bull. I’m sure she can manage for the three days you will actually be away from the office.” 

“She can,” Bull said doubtfully, “but I’m not sure about everyone else.” Dorian sighed and waited for him to finish the call.

He tapped his foot impatiently throughout, and when Bull finally hung up he held out the car keys with his best obstinate expression. “Now, _darling_ , you will drive us to the blighted mountains, and I will keep your phone safe, and when we get there, you will lavish attention on me and we will have a great deal of sex in a location slightly more exotic than your living room.”

The traffic was light and the road was straight, so Bull drove most of the way with only one hand on the steering wheel. The other covered Dorian’s, his thumb rubbing gently over Dorian’s knuckles. Dorian smiled most of the way. Bull insisted they stop at a small, private dragon zoo and its accompanying (dragon themed, of course) diner halfway up the route. It had apparently been featured in Varric’s article, “The Ten Greatest Fereldan Tourist Destinations You’ve Never Even Heard Of” a few years back and Bull had always wanted to see a dragon up close. 

Dorian’s concerns for a fatal ending to such a meeting were not allayed by meeting a middle aged woman with a smear of what he was fairly certain was actual blood across her nose and a patchwork of burn scars on her bare forearms only to be told she was the “Dragon Champion.”

“That’s not a real job title, love.” The heavily tattooed elf wearing a chef’s apron told her. He had a faint Tevinter accent and a weary, indulgent look in his eye that Dorian felt deep in his heart. He introduced himself to Bull as “Hawke’s husband,” and to Dorian as, “Don’t worry. There’s a Tevinter red on the diner menu.” 

Bull and Dorian were the only patrons there and so the woman--Hawke?--allowed Bull into the high dragon’s enclosure. Dorian watched from outside, frost spells at his fingertips. Bull said something to the dragon in Qunlat that Dorian was absolutely certain he had only heard his boyfriend say in bed before. (Dorian had learned a little, but so far the best he could translate was that it contained some sort of reflexive pronoun.) There was a lot of fire.

Afterwards, they ate in the diner. Hawke’s husband slid Dorian the promised Tevinter red without being asked and Dorian did not realize until he grabbed the glass that his hands were shaking. 

“Love carries you to the strangest places,” Hawke’s husband said. 

Dorian startled and looked around, but Hawke and Bull were paying them no mind, busily digging through a few boxes looking for an _I went horn to horn with a Hivernal_ T-shirt in Bull’s size. He nodded. It was the first time he’d made an acknowledgement of the word. 

“Asit tal-eb,” Hawke’s husband said. “You’ll get used to it. In the meantime, there’s red wine. Also curry.”

The curry, thick and yellow and scaldingly spiced in the Seheron style, was in fact delicious. 

At the chalet, Dorian took his time unpacking while Bull rummaged through the small kitchen and declared that they would have to go out to dinner. Dorian distracted him, and they ate a huge breakfast in the restaurant at the base of the ski slopes in the morning.

Dorian hadn’t really mentioned his skiing experience. It was nothing to boast about, really, recreational rather than competitive, and more years in the past than he’d like to admit. It hadn’t occurred to him that Bull might think he’d never skied before. He complained about the cold, sure, but that was because there was just so _much_ of it in Ferelden. In Tevinter, snow stayed at the tops of mountains where it belonged.

“So when you’re going downhill, you want to tack from side to side and not just face straight down. Pointing your skis at the bottom of the hill will get you there faster than you want to go, probably.” Bull had complimented him on his comfort with the ski-lift and was now trying to give him a _very_ basic lesson. It was adorable. “I want to ski some of the tougher trails, but if you’re nervous we can go down some easier slopes together.”

Dorian had bundled up, neckwarmer, scarf and earband under his goggles and helmet, and he knew Bull couldn’t see his expression. He couldn’t help but laugh at Bull a little. Dorian would teach him not to underestimate people.

“I’ll be fine, Bull. Go have fun.” It probably wasn’t a bad idea to head down the main slope once or twice, just to get back in the swing of things. Bull pressed a kiss to the top of Dorian’s helmet and headed off towards a side trail, shuffling a bit until he found his stride. Dorian watched him, amused. It wasn’t every day you saw a Qunari on skis.

Dorian was actually a bit shaky on his first trip down, but by the time he slid into line at the bottom of the lift he was comfortable and happy. Maybe it was because his face was covered and no one could recognize him as Tevinter, but Dorian felt a sort of unspoken bond (not that he’d use such melodramatic language) with the other people on the slope. No one cared who he was or where he was from, he was just another nobody on rented skis.

The mountain was respectably sized, and Dorian followed the side trail Bull had taken to another lift, riding higher up beside a silent man with Warden Sporting Goods insignia all over his coat and snowboard. The view on the lift, and at the top of the mountain, was spectacular. The Frostbacks were an impressive range, Dorian had no trouble admitting it.

The snow was powdery, but not too deep, and Dorian enjoyed the way it felt under his skis, even the popular trails weren’t too tracked down. The wind was crisp, and it bit at his wrists and under his scarf, but it was exhilarating in a way the oppressive grey cold of the city never was. He went slowly for the most part, leisurely exploring side trails and less-busy parts of the mountain for a good hour on his own.

He caught a few glimpses of Bull down the slope or between the trees. His pink helmet (and the horns sticking out of it) was immediately recognizable, but Dorian didn’t make an effort to catch up to him. For the moment.

As the morning stretched into afternoon, Dorian started to get a little bored. He did a series of fast runs, and in the middle of the third, he saw the Bull’s pink helmet bobbing in front of him, cutting across the trail at a lazy diagonal. Exhilarated by speed and feeling a bit mischievous, Dorian cut a hard turn as he sped past Bull, spraying the Qunari with a shower of powdery snow. He laughed at Bull startled yelp and spun to a showy stop a little ways down the hill.

Dorian could feel Bull’s eye on him, and he lifted his goggles to grin at his shocked face. Bull turned and started towards him, and Dorian pulled his goggles down and sped away, laughing. He made it to the bottom first, and waited for Bull with his hands on his hips and his goggles on his helmet.

Bull slid to a stop next to him, a chagrinned smile on his face. “Why’d you let me think you were a newbie?” He rubbed the back of his neck like he always did when he was embarrassed. Dorian grinned.

“It’s funner this way.” Dorian pulled Bull into a soft kiss, not letting him go until he felt Bull’s worried expression melt into a smile. “Besides, it’s good for you. You don’t always know everything.”

“Are you saying I’m not incredibly observant and always right about everything?” They got back in line for the lift, behind a boisterous group of children.

“I’m saying that you’re still annoyed that you don’t know who gave you your secret Santa gift last year. It’s alright to admit that _I’m_ the one who’s always right.” He smiled at Bull. “It’s okay, no one from the office will ever know.”

Bull laughed and then ignored him in favor of offering the kids in front of them help getting on the chairlift. Dorian watched him show two girls how to hop up onto the seat, knowing that he was wearing a fond, foolish smile.

As they locked the bar on their own chair and the ground fell away under their skis, Dorian leaned his head against Bull’s shoulder, careful not to knock his helmet too hard against the Bull’s arm. At the top of the lift, Bull moved to steady Dorian before laughing at himself. “You don’t need my help, of course.”

They moved away from the lift, out of the way of everyone behind them. “No,” he told Bull, “but I think I’ll keep you around anyway. Who knows why.” Bull pressed a kiss to Dorian’s lips over his scarf, and settled Dorian’s goggles carefully on his face.

“Race you to the bottom?” Bull suggested with a grin, and Dorian took off without a word.

Bull wasn’t precisely a sore loser, but he insisted on counting best two out of three, and then three out of five, and Dorian couldn’t let _that_ stand. They watched the sunset from the top of the mountain, then went on a few more runs in the emptying trails. They were too tired to do much than stumble back to the chalet and curl up in bed. Dorian pressed a hand against Bull’s heart, and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be gentle with A's shaky memory of skiing as a child in upstate New York. Not all vocabulary may be accurate.


	13. Year Two: They Were Interrupted By a Phone Call...

I could get used to this, Dorian thought suddenly. They were lying out by the fire after slow sex and a lazy day. The idea followed hard on the heels of the fact that he was currently, even after a year _not_ used to any of it.

He leaned over and kissed Bull. Lazily, without any further intent. Dorian could kiss the Iron Bull any time that he wanted. Just because he wanted. 

It was so warm, lying there with Bull. He could stay as long as he wanted. 

Dorian sat up on one elbow, leaning to look Bull in the eye. they were warm and safe and far away from any sort of interruptions and, whether Dorian celebrated or not, there was something about the time around Christmas. “Bull,” he said.

“Mmm?” Bull looked up at him.

“It’s nothing, really. It’s just, I think maybe I--” Dorian bit his lip. “I _know,_ really that--”

Bull just listened, looking so sweetly concerned. It would have been easier if the Bull had pushed him. Bull never pushed him.

“I wanted to tell you something,” Bull said when it became clear that Dorian wasn’t about to finish his thought. 

Dorian felt something begin to swell in his chest, pressing on his ribs and constricting his lungs. Either he was in serious medical trouble or this was what hope felt like. 

Bull’s phone rang, right near Dorian’s head. He leaned over Dorian, brushing a kiss against his temple before looking at the screen. “Shit. Sorry, it’s Leliana, she wouldn’t call unless it’s an emergency. I think. It’s either an emergency or shoes. Or... probably. I don’t actually know _what_ she does but it seems like--”

“It’s fine,” Dorian told him, the mood thoroughly ruined.

Bull sat up and answered the phone, smiling down at Dorian when he traced shapes on to Bull’s thigh with fingers and lips. He teased Bull a little, admiring the way his skin looked in the shifting light from the fireplace.

Bull caught his hand suddenly, fingers tense, and Dorian sat up next to him, concerned. He could hear Leliana’s voice through the phone, but he couldn’t make out the words. Bull’s face was twisted in worry, and Dorian held Bull’s hand as he nodded and made affirming sounds into the phone. “I’ll come back right away.” Bull said, finally, and hung up the phone.

He turned to Dorian with an apologetic expression, and Dorian reached up to brush a hand across his cheek, concerned. “Josephine’s in the hospital. She’s had a flare-up, a bad one. She’ll be alright but she needs to take a good week in the hospital. I need to get back as soon as possible, I’m sorry. There’s protocols and chains of command and meetings to reschedule…” Bull trailed off, looking miserable.

Dorian sat up on his knees and kissed Bull’s forehead. “It’s alright, really.” He looked Bull seriously in the eye. “We’ll pack up and drive back first thing in the morning.”

Bull shook his head. “You should stay here, enjoy yourself. I’ll catch the next train, and you drive my truck back when you’re done playing in the snow.” He brushed Dorian’s hair out of his face and kissed him soundly before Dorian could argue.

Dorian threw a leg across Bull’s thighs and leaned over him, gripping his horns to tilt his head back for another kiss. Bull pulled them together, chest to chest, one hand cupping Dorian’s cheek. He sighed against Dorian’s mouth, then gasped as Dorian pulled his head to the side to bite at the juncture of his neck. Dorian left a satisfying mark on Bull’s shoulder and then nipped gently at the sensitive spot behind Bull’s ear, every breath and movement he made causing Bull’s fingers to tighten and pull against his skin. “If I have to stay here, all alone, you’d better make sure I have a memento to remember you by.”

The thing about the Bull was that he never pushed Dorian more than he could take, but he certainly took everything that Dorian gave him.

The morning felt a bit like a movie, seeing Bull of at the quaint tourist-trap railroad station, trading sweet kisses and promises to call soon, like they wouldn’t see each other in a few days no matter what. If Dorian stood on the platform and watched Bull’s train until it disappeared around a bend, no one except the pigeons and the jolly-looking custodian would know.

He spent the day on the slopes, and came back to a missed call from Bull but no voicemail, and called him back curled up on an overstuffed armchair, nestled in a pile of blankets. “Miss me?” Bull’s voice rumbled after just one ring.

“Yes, but I’m afraid I’ve met this ravishing count from Orlais, and we’re going to run off and live in his castle together.”

Bull laughed, and Dorian, alone and still chilled by the mountain air, ached rather desperately.

Bull told him about the landscape he was passing, how he’d watched the sunset over the Frostback mountains, about the strange and fascinating people that he always seemed to attract. His voice had a kind of poetry, Dorian thought drowsily, an everyday, casually vulgar, poetry, but poetry all the same. 

There was a storm coming in, Dorian knew. A big one. He would likely be snowed in by morning. He might have to stay a few extra days while the roads cleared. He told Bull as much.

He could hear the smile in Bull’s voice. “Okay. Stay safe, sweetheart. I love you.” He said it so casually. Like he had always been saying it. As if it had always been true. 

The speaker crackled tinny against Dorian’s ear. “Pardon me,” he said, “But I seem to be having a bit of trouble hearing what you just said.” Perhaps there was interference from the storm.

The silence was too long, and Dorian could hear his heart beating. On the other end, Bull took a shaky breath. Dorian’s hand was tight on the phone. 

“I said I love you, okay, Dorian? I fucking love you. I think I have since… I think maybe I’ve loved you since you tried to burn my apartment down with those god-awful cookies. And I was thinking about saying it last night, with you all laid out by the fire. You looked-- I wanted to-- I probably should have waited a few days and said it in person but I just--” the phone fuzzed softly in the abrupt silence. “Look, Dorian. I’m sitting here on a fucking train two days before Christmas waiting to go visit my boss in the hospital and all I can think about is what kind of stupid ass word games we would be playing together if you were here. And I’m gonna fuck this whole thing up for sure. Probably several times over, maybe I just did, but I am in love with you, and that’s something I’ve never said about anyone before. _I love you, Dorian Pavus._ ” 

“Oh,” said Dorian. He hung up the phone. 

He placed his phone delicately on the coffee table, as if it might at any point grow a set of razor sharp teeth and proceed to nibble on him. 

He stared at the phone. If it had eyes, the phone would have stared back. They would have been judgemental, beady eyes, and it would have had a judgemental, staticy voice that asked Dorian, “why didn’t you say it back?” 

“Shut up,” Dorian told the phone. He didn’t handle surprises very well. Possibly not feelings in general. 

That was that, then.

Decision made, Dorian walked calmly to the bedroom, taking care to fold each item of clothing and tuck his possessions neatly away. He made their bed. He left their towels in the large bathtub. He pulled on his boots and coat, and realized the equipment rental was closed, and he had no way to return his and Bull’s skis.

He dithered maybe a minute over that, before writing a brief note and leaving a truly ridiculous tip on the counter for the staff that cleaned up after them. He grabbed his phone and the keys to Bull’s truck, and got on the highway before he could change his mind.

It was a long drive back, but if he didn’t stop often, he could manage it. He’d driven through the night before, once when he left Tevinter and once when they pulled Felix in for the emergency operation that finally saved his life. 

His phone rang after a little while. He answered it, unsurprised to hear Bull upset and concerned on the other end. “I can’t talk at the moment.” Dorian said over Bull’s questions. “I’m busy.” He hung up and pressed a little harder on the gas. He wanted to use the daylight he had left.

Predictably, it began pouring a nasty mixture of snow and freezing rain just after dark. Had Dorian ever hated snow more? He set his jaw, turned on the windshield wipers, and kept driving. When the wipers got stuck, Dorian pressed his hand to the glass on the driver’s side of the car and melted the sheet of ice with magic. It made his arm ache and his fingers numb, but it allowed him to keep driving. If he stopped he would likely get frozen to the side of the road, without even his usual dramatic exaggeration of the weather conditions. His phone rang thirteen more times.

By eight o’clock, the headlights lit the road barely five feet in front of the truck and he crawled along at an atrociously slow pace, grateful for Bull’s snow tires. The wind was too loud to let him hear the music they’d been playing on the ride up.

He seemed to come through the worst of it before nine, and the fields and towns of lowland Ferelden looked almost story-book as he drove past them, all cheery christmas lights and LED reindeer in front yards. He could see the glow of the city long before he got there, hazy through the snow that drifted serenely, like it hadn’t been trying to kill Dorian fifteen minutes ago. It kept snowing all night, and the sun rose before he got to the city.

The closer he got to Bull’s apartment, the worse the bile in the pit of his stomach became. It had had hours to grow, to writhe and curl and scare him, and he’d only fed it pretzels and bad gas station coffee all night, which couldn’t have helped things much. He turned onto Bull’s street, parked and turned the truck off, and sat in the driver’s seat, practically shaking.

He had to do it. Rip the band-aid off, get it over with. He got out of the truck.

Snow was still falling. It was piled on the streetlamps and the sidewalk. People had already been out and about, shoveling stairs and clearing off cars, but snow in Ferelden didn’t stay cleared for long. It got into Dorian’s boots and settled in his hair, melting and making it curl. A dog walker with three giant mabari waved happily at him as she passed. He stood for a long time outside Bull’s apartment before he pressed the buzzer. Bull’s voice crackled across the intercom the moment Dorian took his finger off the button. “Is that you?” He sounded… The Iron Bull sounded scared. Dorian clenched his hands. He wasn’t wearing his gloves. “Dorian, is that you? Are you alright? Did you really drive-- wait, I’ll buzz you in, one minute.”

The door clicked open with its harsh metallic tone and Dorian stepped through, brushing the snow off his shoulders and hair. He didn’t hurry up the stairs like he normally did, but waited for the elevator and took the time to gather his thoughts and get his words in the right order. He had to get it right.

He stood outside Bull’s door for a long time, again. He looked at the crochet wreath that Krem had given Bull, the scuff-marks at the bottom of the frame from when they’d all wrangled a new couch so heavy not even his magic could help wedge it through the door, the tiny gouges at the top that Bull’s horns left when he forgot to duck his head. He took a deep breath and raised his fist to knock on Bull’s door.

It opened before he had a chance to. Bull looked down at him, sweater rumpled, eyepatch gone, his eye looked like he’d been crying. “I’m sorry,” he said when Dorian startled a little. “I was watching through the...” he waved jerkily at the peephole in the door, “I didn’t want to rush you.” His twisted his sweater in his hands. “I really didn’t, not just now, not with the-- not when I said it.” He squared his shoulders like he expected a physical blow.

“I love you too,” said Dorian. And damn it all if he wasn’t crying.

Bull began to cry too. “I-- good. That’s...good,” he said. He leaned forwards and wrapped his arms around Dorian, pressing their foreheads together. Dorian tilted his head up and kissed him. Then there was wet, snuffling laughter and then cider and Christmas cookies and then a move to the little bedroom inside Bull’s apartment and then no one came out from under the covers for a long, long time.


	14. Year Two: The Chargers Got Drunk And Went Caroling...

Dorian got to Bull’s apartment after everyone else did, and when he walked in, the Chargers were decorating Bull’s horns. Krem handed him a cup filled with some indefinable (but clearly, _nose-scorchingly_ alcoholic) liquid. Dorian took a gulp, purely out of reflex, and coughed so hard he teared up. Sera thumped him companionably on the back. A few handheld cameras floated around the room.

“We’re going to visit Josephine first, then around to everyone whose house we can reach by public transport in three hours.” Bull told him seriously while Rocky wound fake holly over the point of one horn. “Rules are, everyone has to have a drink at any bar we pass, and you can’t have water twice in a row.”

“Rules for what?” He smiled fondly at Bull. He’d been so stressed looking after Josephine and Ameridian Press without her, Dorian could put up with a bit of silliness to see him smile.

“Drunken caroling of course. Chargers tradition, most popular holiday video we put out.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.” Someone gasped like he’d mortally insulted their mother.

Bull laughed. “Nah, it’s a tradition.”

“A tradition that often ends in bodily harm and public intoxication charges?”

“A tradition that often ends in hilarity, and a great video, and that you should be part of!”

Skinner brandished a camera menacingly at him. “We got drunk and sang Christmas carols,” she hissed. Dorian was not sure he had ever heard her speak in a tone he could describe as anything other than “threatening.”

“What happens next will warm your heart!” Krem and Dalish yelled in unison. Both of them were clutching cups of Krem’s noxious beverage and already a bit rosy-cheeked. 

“I think it’s far more likely to warm a New Haven PD holding cell,” Dorian grumbled. Nonetheless, he pinched his nose and downed his glass in one.

Sera was wearing _two_ pairs of reindeer antlers, and refused to take either one off. “That’s the spirit!” She yelled. 

He was already giggling helplessly by the time they all burst into Josephine’s room, more of Rocky’s “holiday cheer” sloshing in a borrowed flask in his coat pocket. Bull hadn’t let go of his hand the entire bus ride, or in the hall, and Dorian could feel the warmth of his skin through his mittens. Josephine was sitting up in bed, and stared at them in confusion until Sera started an aggressively out-of-key rendition of “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.” 

They got partway through a modified version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” (They had to stop for a minute when Dorian couldn’t help laughing at “five cat videos” even though it _wasn’t that funny_ ) before they were shown out of the building by disgruntled nurses.

As they serenaded a group of EMTs whose opinions seemed to range from “exhausted” to “amused” to “ _definitely_ not feeling the Christmas spirit,” Dorian realized he didn’t actually know the words to many Christmas carols.

“It’s not about getting the words right.” Bull wasn’t any help at all.

Sera’s “help” consisted of profanity, sound effects and sniggering. Dorian had no idea what exactly “The Carol of the Old Ones” was, but he was fairly certain it was not _really_ a holiday standard.

The Rutherford-Cadash household met them on the porch with hot chocolate. Callie made sure that Dorian got whipped cream and smiled beatifically at him and Bull. Cullen was less pleased than his wife and children were to see a pack of drunken office workers, and shooed them away after only one rendition of Skinner and Sera’s dramatic version of “Me and Mrs. Claus” 

Varric refilled their flasks and travel mugs, and joined them.

Dorian’s flask was empty before they got to Vivienne’s, because for some unholy reason they had decided to _walk_ there, and he was _cold_. The freezing air made him sober up a touch, and he stuffed his hands in his pockets. Krem and Stitches, from the IT desk, were trying to teach Varric a song that seemed to be mostly about the Chargers and not even an attempt at a holiday parody. They were loud, but everyone seemed steady on their feet. Really, there was far less walking into lampposts and tripping over each other than Dorian had expected.

At one point, a patrol car pulled up next to the group, the passenger side window rolling to down to reveal two officers, looking rather suspicious. Varric bounced over and leaned casually against the door. “If it isn’t my favorite members of the New Haven PD!” He crowed. “How’s your holiday, Officers Vallen?” 

“That’s Police Chief Vallen to you, Varric,” the female officer said.

“It’s Police Chief Vallen to everyone,” Bull pointed out. 

Dorian had never met the Chief of Police, and this hardly seemed like the ideal time to begin their acquaintance, but her hands-on approach was well-regarded in the area. He hadn’t realized she and Varric were on a first-name basis. 

“What are you two lovebirds doing on the beat?” Varric asked. “Reliving your whirlwind courtship of yesteryear? I hear you’re going to be grandparents! Ah, how time does fly. How’s your daughter?”

“She’s doing well, Varric. You’ll see her at the baby shower. ” Dorian was impressed with her ability to convey to everyone listening that she was rolling her eyes _very_ hard.

Varric teased Vallen and her husband with companionable vigor while everyone else stood off to the side in varying levels of awkwardness. Grim, the only one of them who was entirely sober, went around checking the cameras he’d bestowed on some of the group. Varric eventually waved the Vallens away with a promise to keep the group safe and quiet, which Dorian didn’t think anyone believed. They still had to get to Vivienne’s townhouse.

Bull and Dorian walked behind the others, and Dorian tried valiantly to keep his teeth from chattering, but it was a losing battle. Bull’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, familiar and warm, but the slightly awkward angle slowed them down even further.

“How’s your leg?” Dorian asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence. Snow drifted down, muffling sounds from outside the little bubble that had seemed to form around them. Their footsteps seemed like the loudest sound. Bull was leaning on him a little, just enough that Dorian knew his knee must be aching.

Bull shrugged. “Well enough for now. How’re your ears? Freezing off?” He unwound his massive scarf and draped it around Dorian’s head and shoulders, tying the ends in a floppy bow underneath Dorian’s chin. He must look ridiculous. He did feel a bit warmer, though that could have been the humiliation. He smiled fondly up at Bull.

Bull was backlit by a streetlamp behind his left shoulder, his face cast into shadow so that all Dorian could see was his answering smile. Bull leaned down and kissed him, gloveless hands cupping the back of his head gently. His breath was warm against Dorian’s lips.

Dorian threw his arms around Bull’s shoulders and pulled him closer, ignoring the chilly tip of Bull’s nose against his cheek. He tasted like peppermint and a little bit like vodka, and Dorian didn’t care that his toes were freezing inside his boots. Bull leaned his forehead against Dorian’s, a grin crinkling at the edge of his eye and the steam from their breath mingling in the cold air between them.

“I love you,” Dorian said, not very loud, and Bull kissed him again.

Somewhere further down the street, the Chargers were laughing and shouting, and Dorian chuckled when he heard Krem yelling for them to catch up. He dropped a kiss on Bull’s nose and pulled away, but didn’t let go of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can hear the [ Carol of the Old Ones ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cdnjl0ZK9kE&feature=youtu.be) on Youtube


	15. Year Two: Dorian Got Mail From Home...

Dorian was curled up on the couch with a good book and no plans to move any time soon. Bull was puttering around in the kitchen, humming to himself. The rule in their relationship (now unspoken, once aggressively debated) was that no matter whose house they were in, Dorian was _not_ allowed in the kitchen. Dorian maintained that the Cookie Incident was an extreme case, and not representative of _all_ his cooking (he had managed to feed himself before Bull started cooking for him, after all) but he was hardly about to argue with Bull’s lasagna.

Bull had a drawer of clothes in Dorian’s bedroom, a toothbrush and jar of horn balm in the bathroom. Bull was slowly melting into every part of Dorian’s routine. He made coffee in the morning, and gave Dorian backrubs, and was basically making Dorian’s life a mess of domestic feelings and happiness. The only thing Dorian had _not_ done was introduce Bull to the Alexiuses. Felix knew about his... inclinations, certainly. Had ever since Dorian had come to live with the Alexius family at fourteen. But he had never explained to Livia or Gereon what exactly had happened with his father. They had simply shrugged it off and accepted a second son into their home. 

It wasn’t that he was... afraid of telling them, exactly. It was just that he was terrified. Several hundred years since the dark ages may have abolished slavery in Tevinter, but it had made the society no less homophobic. He’d tell them. Eventually. He was just waiting for the right moment. If the right moment took its own sweet time in getting there, Dorian could hardly be blamed for it, could he? 

A box from his foster family sat on the coffee table, addressed in Livia’s perfect copperplate calligraphy. It was accompanied by a note in Felix’s abysmal scrawl threatening to tell Mae about that time with the dancer in Vyrantium if he opened it without Skyping them first.

Dorian wasn’t very patient, his fingers itched and the box taunted him. Felix’s icon popped up on his laptop's screen. Apparently, the right moment may be coming rather abruptly. Bull was still humming blissfully to himself in the kitchen, not quite in view of the webcam. 

He couldn’t _not_ answer it. What was he going to say? “Sorry, Bull. I know you’re the man whom I’ve chosen to love and we’ve been together nearly a full year but I’d really prefer you not meet my family right now. We might try putting if off until we’re quite thoroughly dead, if possible.” or, alternatively, “Sorry, mother. I know you and Felix and Gereon have allowed me into your lives and asked nothing in return and loved me unconditionally all these years, I’m just terribly nervous about introducing you to my perfectly nice boyfriend. Also, he’s a massive Qunari who just so happens to be another man. Happy Hanukkah!”

Felix and Livia materialized, crowded into his laptop screen. “Happy Hanukkah!” They shouted, and Dorian grinned at their wildly waving hands. “We miss you!” Livia scolded, “You should call us more often!”

“I’ve been... busy?” Dorian said apologetically. 

“Who’s that, sweetheart?” Bull called from where he was stirring the sauce pot. 

Dorian winced.

“Busy, huh?” Dorian could not remember a time in their childhood when Felix had actually cackled. He must have learned it from Mae.

“Well... I mean...In the sense that I’ve been... doing other...”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence before Felix began to guffaw. Actually guffaw. Dorian was disgusted. 

“New roommate?” Livia asked blithely. 

“He’s my...” Dorian glanced back at Bull. He knew right then that he could say “roommate” or “friend” or even “exotic house boy” and Bull would immediately cotton on and play along. That, if nothing else, to Dorian was true love. He didn’t want Bull to have to play along, though. Loving someone was funny like that. 

Dorian removed his glasses and began cleaning them on the hem of his t-shirt. He didn’t speak again until he had replaced them on the bridge of his nose. Bull, Livia, and even Felix were all silent. “Mother,” he began hesitantly. “Felix already knows, but--” why was this so hard? It was like being thirteen all over again, trying to find the words for the story of a fresh bruise. “It’s time you knew that I’m... I rather prefer the company of men.” 

Livia’s face crinkled in. Dorian tried his best to look like he wasn’t waiting with bated breath. Finally, her lips parted and she began to laugh. She didn’t stop for what Dorian felt was quite an inappropriately long time. “Thank God,” she said at last, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “I thought I was going to have to go on pretending I didn’t know for _years._ ”

“You knew?” Dorian gaped at her.

“You thought I really believed you and Rilienus were studying Thaumaturgy that vigorously when you locked yourselves up in your room every Thursday? You’re quite loud, dear.”

“Extremely vocal,” Felix murmured. “Very enthusiastic about... runes.” 

“Runes,” Livia repeated, nodding seriously. 

Behind him, Dorian heard Bull snort.

“Well this is just a whole new kind of humiliating now,” Dorian mumbled. 

“So do we get to meet him?” Felix demanded. “Or is he just going to stand over there cooking for you?” 

“I suppose it can no longer be circumvented,” Dorian sighed. 

Bull chuckled. “That sounds like my cue.” 

He walked over, still wearing LED horn lights and a pink frilly apron, nestled himself against Dorian’s side, and waved at the laptop as though he watched his boyfriend come out to his family every day. “Iron Bull, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

Felix waved back. 

Livia looked dismayed. “Oh dear,” she said. “It’s not going to fit at all.” 

Dorian had a brief moment of horrified panic. It must have shown on his face because his adoptive mother flapped a hand at him and said, “your presents, Dorian.” 

Bull obligingly fetched the box, and sat with it on his lap while Dorian carefully unfolded the paper from around the edges and smoothed it out. Inside the box were two cable-knit maroon and white striped sweaters. Had Dorian not spent years watching Livia knit impossible things by hand, he would have assumed they were store bought. Bull, an artist in his own right, had no such impulses. 

“These are beautiful,” he said, looking genuinely touched as he held one up. “Oh, Krem’s gonna shi--be really jealous of your abilities.” He let out a small cough.

“Felix wasn’t sure that we should send two, you know.” Livia looked pleased by Bull’s compliments. “But I have a mother’s intuition. I wasn’t about to pry of course, but…”

Dorian rolled his eyes affectionately. “What tipped you off?”

“Well, mostly the fact that you’ve had decent food on your plate lately when we call.” Felix looked smug. “I’m sorry your boyfriend’s such a bad cook, Iron Bull. I tried to teach him.”

“That’s alright, I love him anyways.” Bull squeezed Dorian tighter against his side, and he knew he must be horribly red. Livia just beamed with approval. “Ma’am, thank you again for the sweaters. They’re works of art.”

“Unfortunately, they’re also human sized,” Livia grumbled. “If _certain children_ would introduce me to their boyfriends before they’ve been dating a year I might be able to make them clothes that fit.” 

Dorian had no good answer for that. 

Bull did, though. He appraised the sweater, which was about two thirds of his torso’s length and half as wide, and said, “Ma’am, I can make anything work.” 

Livia chuckled. “Well, then. Happy Hanukkah, boys.” 

The sweater definitely didn’t fit, but, much to Dorian’s chagrin, Bull wore it whenever he got the chance.


	16. Year Two: He Thought He Was a Great Spy...

Dorian was planning something. Sera didn’t know what, Krem had no ideas, and Vivienne just raised a frosty eyebrow at him. Maybe Bull shouldn’t have interrupted her while she was reviewing the edits of Ten Holiday Kitten Outfits You Didn’t Know Can Make at Home!

It wouldn’t have mattered so much if Bull had known _what_ Dorian was planning. Bull was used to knowing what was going on in people’s heads, and he’d gotten pretty familiar with the way Dorian thought, in particular. All he could figure out was that Dorian planning _something_ , probably for _Bull_ , and was very, very pleased with himself.

“Are you helping Sera plan for the prank war video?” He asked over lunch on the 18th.

“Isn’t everyone?” Dorian shrugged. “Apparently she needs me for some of the “flashy bits” that Vivienne refused to help with.”

“Is it another present?” He ventured in bed on the 20th. “I thought we agreed on two gifts.” 

“And you’ve seen both boxes in my living room, already wrapped.”

He pulled Dorian against his his chest, and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want to tell me?” He purred, and Dorian laughed. Bull didn't actually find out anything that night. At least not about the presents. 

On the 21st, he tried bringing it up in a more roundabout way. “You know, just because I celebrate it doesn’t mean we _have_ to do presents on Christmas. We don’t actually have to do Christmas at all. I’m really not religious.” 

Dorian eyed the artful metal horn attachments that Bull had made in his shop. They made his horns look like festive halla antlers. They also jingled. He made a killing selling them on etsy every year. “You... don’t want to celebrate Christmas.”

“I’m just saying we don’t have to. If it makes you uncomfortable. We can do gifts on Hanukkah if you want, there’s still a day or two left, right?.” In truth, Bull was _dying_ to show Dorian the menorah version of the horn decals. They had real fire and everything. 

Dorian stared at him. “Not Christmas. You.” 

Okay, so he probably should have taken the jingle antlers off first. Also the humping halla sweater. Maybe this conversation would have just gone better if they hadn’t been wearing clothes at all.

Dorian’s eyes narrowed. “This is about the gift, isn’t it?” 

“What gift?” Bull was usually good at looking innocent.

“The one you tried opening secretly the last time you were over.” 

Bull scowled. The box had been wrapped in layers of white and gold tissue paper frailer than a butterfly’s wing and he had been totally unable to peek without ripping it. He thought he had given up before the tear became too noticeable. Apparently not.

“It was really shiny?” He suggested. “It’s kinda a fucking huge box and a weird-ass shape?”

“ _You_ ,” Dorian said with glee, “are an _impatient child_.” He poked Bull in the chest. “And because you ruined my painstaking wrapping job, you have to open that one _last_.”

And so, Christmas morning, after some dawdling in bed, Bull made them pancakes and Dorian made them coffee, and they sat on the couch in Bull’s living room, next to his tiny plastic tree. The giant gold-and-white box was there. Taunting him.

He did his best to ignore it and gave Dorian one of his carefully wrapped gifts. Bull prided himself on excellent presentation, and appreciated the care Dorian took with the wrapping paper. For the first few moments, anyway. Dorian slid the ribbons off the sides without breaking them, and then carefully turned the present over to slice the tape with a fingernail. He unfolded the paper and set it aside in a neat square before really looking at his gift. It was cute. 

Dorian appreciated the Tevinter wine of the month club membership as much as the wrapping, and the pair of delicate hand-blown wine glasses that went with even more. Bull grinned. The time he’d spent learning to blow glass years prior had more than paid off. 

Bull tore into the smaller present, ignoring Dorian’s wrinkled nose. It was heavier than he first expected, and the bright pink welding mask tumbled to the floor with an ungainly thump. Bull picked it up immediately. 

“I found a woman who makes them custom on etsy,” Dorian told him. 

Bull kissed him, touched. 

Dorian’s books were next, and Bull was excited to see his reaction. He’d scoured ebay and every local bookstore as soon as he’d had the idea, and drummed his fingers on his knees as Dorian removed the wrapping paper with painstaking care. He turned over each book gently, reading the inscriptions and jacket flaps and tracing the titles and authors with his fingers. There were three books, two were collections of essays and one a hulking scholarly tome, all focusing on non-traditional readings of classical texts and characters. “My favorite’s the one about Achilles and Patroclus.” Bull told him. “It’s a sad fucking story, but it’s pretty obvious how in love they were.”

Dorian turned to face him, eyes a little teary. “I love them, Bull.” He looked back at the books in his lap, and leafed through the largest. “I found an earlier edition of this buried in the stacks at my university library. It was actually...quite a comfort.”

“You didn’t watch other people’s coming out videos on youtube like a normal college student?” Bull teased gently, pressing a kiss to the top of Dorian’s head.

“Well, I did that too.” Dorian smiled. He tilted Bull’s face down and kissed him sweetly. “Thank you, darling.”

Finally, finally, Bull ripped the paper of of his mysterious package. He opened the box and discovered... another, slightly smaller box. And another after that. 

Dorian smirked. “A little receptionist told me it was you who suggested the rather despicable wrapping technique for my plush nug last year.”

Bull sighed. He should have known that would come back to haunt him. The second box contained a shoebox surrounded by a sea of packing peanuts to keep it from shifting around in its gigantic holder. The shoebox contained a small, flat box that was stuck in place with a bit of tape and topped with a bow. Bull carefully detached the small box from its mooring. 

Dorian looked at him, the smirk gone and something decidedly nervous in his eyes. 

Bull glanced down at the carefully wrapped little box and gently peeled off the tape from the sides, careful not to damage the paper any more than he had to. He put the box down, folded up the little square, and handed it to Dorian. 

Dorian flashed him a weak smile and Bull opened the final box.

It was a key. Specifically, it was a pink key with a bright yellow sunflower pattern on it. It was not at all Dorian’s style. In fact, it was Bull’s. 

Bull looked up at him. 

“I just thought,” said Dorian carefully “that if you lived with me, we would have room to get a tree much larger than this one.”

“You mean...” Bull normally prided himself on being quick on the uptake. It was one of the things that made him a brilliant secretary. But sometimes, he had to be sure.

“Move in with me,” said Dorian. “Please.” 

Bull glanced around his old apartment. He wouldn’t even miss it, really. “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “That sounds good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian opens presents like Auditorycheesecakes and Bull opens presents like me. I am also roughly that amount into Christmas, though I lack the skills Bull has in metalworking. -- Uniqeinalltheworld


	17. Year Three: A Jewish Vint Tries To Decorate A Christmas Tree...

Bull wouldn’t really consider Dorian a Christmas expert. There were parts of it he was good at, sure, (the mistletoe around their apartment was a nice touch) but for the most part, it really wasn’t his area of expertise.

Take Christmas trees for instance. Bull knew for a fact that Dorian couldn’t have decorated many trees in his life. He’d been wary of the little plastic thing Bull had had in his apartment before he moved in, and always watched from a respectful distance when Josephine and Vivienne decorated the “Non-Denominational Holiday Tree” in the office.

Watching him now, Bull revised his previous assessment. Dorian didn’t know which side of the tree was up.

But he wouldn’t be Dorian if he let little things like “practicality” and “experience” get in his way. Bull had been allowed to carry the tree up to their apartment, but Dorian had bought boxes and boxes of ornaments, and not enough strings of lights, and said that he would figure it out.

Bull watched, for a little while. Mostly, Dorian spent that time opening boxes and examining the glass ornaments he’d bought. The tree was in a corner of the living room, waiting to be decorated. There had been some struggle setting it up in the stand, and Dorian was still grumbling about all the pine needles on the carpet.

“Want a hand?” Bull offered. Dorian was looking a little lost, but waved him off and focused on the decorations. Bull shrugged and went to get a drink.

When Bull wandered back into the room with two mugs of individually topped hot chocolate, he found Dorian sitting in front of the tree with strings of lights tangled in his lap. He’d painstakingly hung his ornaments at precise intervals, which looked very nice, all shiny and white and gold, but… “You know, the lights are usually the first step. Otherwise they knock all the other shit down when you try to put them on.”

Dorian tensed up. “Thank you, Bull, but I think I can figure it out on my own.” He went back to untangling the loop of lights.

“I’ve got a bit more experience in this, sweetheart, I just don’t want the lights to break your pretty ornaments.” He set down his mug and pulled one of the baubles off the tree. 

Dorian squawked and grabbed at his hand. “Don’t take them _off_!” He snatched the ornament back. “I put that one there for a _reason_!” He glared at Bull and hooked the ornament around the branch with exaggerated care.

He pulled up a picture on his phone and showed it to Bull. Pintrest. Dorian was obsessed with it. Apparently he didn’t get his fill of lousy social media at work, and was constantly working on “Make Your Own Mason Jar Terrariums!” and other cute, but useless crafts that he took _very_ seriously. The picture he shoved in Bull’s face was titled “The Perfect Christmas Tree!!!” because of course it was, and was indeed pretty, in an impersonal kind of way. The ornaments on Dorian’s tree were exact replicas of the ones in the photo, and he’d spaced them exactly the same.

Bull sighed. He should have realized this was one of _those_ things. “Dorian, you know it doesn’t have to look exactly like the picture, right?”

Dorian looked at him askance. “And why shouldn’t it look like the picture?”

“Well, for starters, I own ornaments, too.”

“I never said you couldn’t use them,” Dorian sniffed. 

“It was sort of implied with the whole you’re not allowing me to touch the tree thing, though.”

“Of course you’re allowed to touch the tree.”

“Can’t tell it,” Bull said mildly. Dorian glared at him, not convinced by the tone at all. Bull watched him levelly, arms crossed. “I wouldn’t want to screw up the stuff you’re already doing backwards, anyway.”

Dorian didn’t reply, or even turn another glare at Bull, which was fair. It wouldn’t be a real argument if only one of them was being passive aggressive.

Dorian stood up and started trying to wrap the lights around the top of the tree, attention fixed angrily on the tree. The electrical cord trailed from the outlet into the air, forming a ridiculous sort of bridge to the star already sitting precariously on top. The whole setup was unsustainable. Sure enough, the tension from the wires to the branch made it wobble and fall to the ground with an audible clunk. “Shit,” Dorian snapped, emphatically. 

There was a soft sort of _zzt_ sound and a smell like burning hair. Then the whole tree went dark. It took Bull a moment to put it all together. He had seen Dorian lose control of his magic once or twice when they were in bed, but Dorian hadn’t been holding onto any household appliances at the time.

“Now may I help?” Bull asked, trying his best to keep his voice even and unaccusatory. It was hardly the end of the world, after all. Bull had dozens more strings of lights wrapped up around newspapers in his own ornament box.

“You don’t have to fucking help me just because I fucked up!” Dorian snarled.

Bull held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Hey, easy big guy. It’s not a big deal. We can fix--”

“You don’t always have to fix everything for me, Bull. I can do it myself.”

Bull lowered his hands. “Dorian. Do you wanna tell me what this is really about?”

“It’s about you thinking I’m a useless strain on the relationship just because I lack a few household skills!”

Bull tried very hard to figure out a time when his actions could have given Dorian that impression. “But I don’t think that,” he said.

“Of course you do.”

“I...really don’t.” Bull was starting to get the impression that this argument was not really about him. “I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like--”

“Like what, Bull? Like Christmas means a lot to you? Like it’s our first Christmas living together and it has to be perfect?”

Bull laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Dorian, you have close to zero practical skills and you’ve never decorated a tree before in your life. You don’t even celebrate Christmas. It was never gonna be even close to perfect.” 

That, apparently, was the exact wrong thing to say.

“Well,” snapped Dorian. “It’s good to know how terribly useful you think I am.” He turned on his heel and stomped towards the kitchen, trying his best not to look like he was about to cry.

“Shit,” Bull muttered.


	18. Year Three: Dorian Decided To Cook Again...

Dorian stormed into the kitchen and leaned over the sink for a steadying breath. Bull thought he had no “practical skills,” did he?

They’d lived together for a year, and Dorian hadn’t expected it to be entirely domestic bliss (alright, maybe he had, just a _little_ ) but he hadn’t been prepared for the way their arguments had changed. Bull wasn’t the sort to grumble over a broken glass when he was actually upset over something real. Dorian was, he could possibly admit sometimes, liable to sublimate his frustrations into smaller grievances. They both had learned which buttons to push very quickly. Well, no, that wasn’t quite right was it? _Dorian_ pushed Bull’s buttons and Bull just sat there and allowed him to. God forbid the man actually have strong feelings about a subject once in a while. 

He was a science writer, for fuck’s sake. Or, well, he was a Four Ways to Make Household Cleaning Easier Using Science! writer. _He_ was supposed to be the rational one. Not Bull. Bull was an artist. Hadn’t Dorian read somewhere that artists were opinionated and passionate?

Bull was certainly passionate about _some_ things. His art. Proper plant care. Shoes being taken off before one fully enters one’s house. Just not about--

Dorian lifted his glasses and roughly swiped the beginnings of tears away. He was _not_ going to cry tonight. Not about this. Not about anything.

Maybe he couldn’t decorate Christmas trees for shit, but there was _one_ thing he could do that Bull couldn’t. Well, three, but one involved nudity and not currently being in a fight with his boyfriend. The second was magic. The third, and most relevant: The Iron Bull could not make the Alexius Family Latkes.

With perhaps more banging of pots and slamming of cabinet doors than was strictly necessary, Dorian assembled his tools, lined up his ingredients, pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, and set to work.

He washed the vegetables aggressively, and set to peeling them with stubborn intensity. Bull wandered in around the third potato and leaned against the counter with a curious expression. Dorian glared at him over his shoulder and dropped the last potato into a bowl, before turning back to the sink. Bull crossed his arms and waited.

He pulled the cheese grater out of the cabinet and set to shaving the potatoes with a scowl, aware of Bull’s quiet presence at his back.

After the potatoes came the zucchini, and then the carrots, and then, because he was annoyed and not totally focused, and when you grated carrots they got all _bendy,_ the tip of Dorian’s finger. “ _Shit_!” He dropped the carrot and ran his hand under cold water, grimacing at the sting. Bull was at his side in a moment, holding his wrist with a concerned noise.

“It’s just a cut,” Dorian mumbled. Bull didn’t say anything, just turned Dorian’s hand over and examined his finger. A bead of blood welled up where he’d skinned it.

“I’ll get you a band-aid,” Bull said, in a tone Dorian had never had much luck arguing against. It didn’t stop him from trying.

“It’s fine. It’ll stop bleeding soon and a band aid will make it hard to cook with.”

Bull returned with a band-aid. Dorian graciously allowed him to wrap it around his fingertip.

“What can I do to help?” Bull looked terribly sweet. Dorian tried to hold onto his annoyance, but was having difficulty in the face of Bull’s tenderness. He handed Bull the cheese grater and a zucchini. Bull looked alarmed. “Does this mean you’re still mad at me?”

“Would you care if I was?”

“So that’s a yes.”

“Just grate it into the bowl with the carrots and potatoes.”

“I do care, you know,” Bull said quietly, even as he began shredding the zucchini. 

Dorian peeled another carrot and handed it to him. He set to chopping the onions, which conflicted with his no-crying-this-evening plans, but onion tears didn’t count.

“It’s not like I think you’re useless or something.” Bull continued monologuing over the soft crunch of the carrot. “I just wanna take care of you. I never meant to make you feel like you couldn’t do it yourself.”

Dorian cracked the eggs into the vegetables, and dropped in the flour. He stirred the mix speculatively, and added a bit more. 

“Well, except for cookies. You really do suck at cookies,” he joked weakly. 

Dorian put the pan on the stove without cracking a smile.

Bull rubbed that spot between his horns again. “God, Dorian, I fucking hate it when we fight.” 

When the pan was hot, he poured in a generous amount of olive oil. (He could still hear Livia’s scolding Felix for not using enough the first year they’d been allowed to help cook. That was a lesson quickly learned.) 

Bull actually looked sort of desperate now. Dorian would have liked to say he was a good enough man that there wasn’t a little part of him that enjoyed it.“Please, sweetheart, just talk to me. Tell me what I did wrong and I’ll apologize for it. ”

“You should open a window or two,” He told Bull. “Latkes are always smoky.” Bull complied quickly. He hovered next to Dorian at the stove as he spooned the mix into the pan. They sizzled nicely. Dorian watched the oil pop and poked gingerly at a latke. The bottom was beginning to brown, the middle beginning to cook though.

“I can _do_ things.” He said quietly. Bull looked like he might start talking, so Dorian talked over him instead. “I just want to know that you need me to.”

Bull did not have a coherent reply for that. Instead, he made a noise deep in his chest like he’d been wounded. “I do. I always do.” He drew a shuddering breath and sat down on the kitchen floor. The action was inadvisable at best; the floor was scattered with stray potato peelings and a light coating of flour. Dorian cooked latkes _well_ , but not _neatly_.

“Do you remember when you and Vivienne went to Lake Calenhad a few months back?”

Dorian did. They had been filming You Won’t Believe What Your History Books Won’t Tell You About These Historical Landmarks! It was the first time he and Bull had been apart more than a day or two since they first started dating. He had been “a bit mopey, darling,” according to Vivienne. Bull had texted him, always sounding cheerful. It was maddening.

“I was a wreck the whole time you were gone,” Bull admitted. “I thought I would be okay. I mean, it was only a couple weeks and we texted the whole time but I just. Lost it.” Bull stared up at him. “I fucking curled up and smelled your pillows. I couldn’t sleep any other way. The bed was so cold and I-- shit, Dorian. I guess I just thought you somehow knew.”

Dorian forked the finished latkes onto a plate and stated another batch. “Can you watch these for a minute?” He asked Bull, handing him the wooden spatula.

Bull stood up, eying it nervously. “Will you be pissed if they burn?”

“It won’t take long, I promise.” He ducked into the living room. Bull had somehow made the tree look almost like something out of a catalogue in the time it had taken Dorian to angrily find some bowls. He smiled ruefully at it, and had an idea.

He felt much better when he went back to the kitchen. Bull looked relieved to see him. “I wasn’t sure if I should put more oil in?” He asked, holding the olive oil out to Dorian like it might bite him.

Dorian smiled, and poured a bit of oil into the pan. It didn’t need a lot more. Bull watched over his shoulder. He was warm. Dorian could feel it in his body even these few inches away.

“Come eat these with me,” Dorian said when the second batch was done. “They’re better when they’re hot.” 

Bull put the latkes on plates and Dorian grabbed the containers of applesauce and sour cream out of the fridge. He led Bull into the living room and stood to the side, enjoying Bull’s sharp intake of breath.

The ornaments on the tree--both his store bought ones and Bull’s hand crafted metal origami pieces--now glowed in their own enchanted light. It was a stupid party trick they taught thaumaturgy students to help them practice underlying principles, but surprisingly hard to master. It had taken Dorian years of melted knicknacks to learn how to make things glow without heating up.

Bull glanced between the tree and his slightly red-faced boyfriend. 

Dorian stood his ground next to their tree--their _first_ Christmas tree--shining in the ornaments’ light, his hands shaking just enough to disturb his plate of latkes.

Bull spoke first. “That’s probably the most impractical magical skill I’ve ever seen.” 

“Yes,” said Dorian. 

“I don’t think I could ever love anything more.”

* * *

Was this whole AU an excuse for A to spread her latkes to the world? Well who knows but this is the recipe I use!  
You need:  
a cheese grater, a large bowl, and a frying pan  
three potatoes (i ususally use yukon golds), one large-ish carrot, a zucchini, half an onion, flour, two-three eggs, and a LOT of olive oil. Like, buy a new bottle from the store just for this. (This is a rough estimate and is more of party-feeding size than a one-person dinner size. They do make good leftovers though.)  


1\. wash the veggies, peel the potatoes, and grate that shit into the bowl. Some people use food processors but I think that is NEWFANGLED AND WRONG. Watch your hands, though, I always slice a finger. Always. I don't think I've made it through one latke event without injury. Maybe you're more coordinated than I am, though. Good luck.  
Your pile of veggie bits should be mostly potato, but feel free to experiment.  


2\. With all the veggies grated into the bowl, there is an optional step of squeezing the water out of them into the sink. Take small handfuls and smoosh all the dribbly stuff down the drain. If you're in a hurry or it's too gross, it's not ESSENTIAL. But you don't want everything swimming around in a layer of water. I guess you could strain it in a sieve or something instead.  
THEN, salt. Not a ton. Crack the eggs into the mix, and put in some flour. I learned to cook these w/out written instructions and am terrible at estimating spacial stuff so let's say... about half a cup. More eggs=fluffier but I don't like to cover up the veggies too much. You want the mixture kinda goopy but able to hold together because the next step...  


3\. you drop little pats of it into the pan! (The pan that you have previously heated and put in a decent layer of olive oil-- it should cover the bottom noticeably and make sure it's sizzling before you start cooking.) You want everything sizzling consistently throughout the cooking process, so heat should be medium-high.  
Now with latkes, size doesn't matter. Mine are often approximately palm-sized and I fry three to four at a time in a 12-inch pan. Just make sure they're flattish. Pat them down a bit with a spatula. Individually, they cook pretty quickly, but large batches do take time. They should start holding together quicker than a pancake would, and I suggest poking them around the pan a bit once they do. It makes them easier to flip if they're solid and not stuck. Flip them when they're deep brown on the bottom, make sure there's some oil in the pan, and repeat on the other side.  


4\. Pop them off and onto a plate (you might want to put a paper towel on top to catch the oil) and drop some new ones in the pan. TOTALLY taste one as soon as they won't scorch your tongue off. They are BEST right away-- they're fried potato, of course they're great.  
Experiment with size, olive oil, heat all you want, but KEEP A WINDOW OPEN they are so smoky I ALWAYS set off an alarm.  


5\. Eat them hot with sour cream or applesauce (I've also heard of yogurt???) 

Thus ends the lesson in Auditorycheescake's latkes. They should be good I have gotten feedback from Aunts and other kitchen authority figures but who knows I hope I don't make your kitchen explode?

Uniqueinalltheworld can vouch for them too


	19. Year Three: He Tried To Set Up Christmas Lights...

Bull had one nail to go. The Christmas lights were wrapped around his shoulders, so he wouldn’t have to climb back into the room to grab them. He leaned back a bit, trying to gauge just where he should stick the last nail. His balance was fine, holding onto the inside of the windowsill with one hand, feet still mostly on the floor.

The people directly across the street had been adding to their massive window display for weeks, a little at a time, and Bull just didn’t feel like Dorian’s little window-sticker dreidel cut it anymore. Sure, it was cute, and it had looked “understated” and “refined” when the menorah was on the windowsill, but Hannukah was over and those bastards across the street were showing them up. The lights were the first step, and Bull would go find more stickers or a live halla or something over the weekend.

“What the hell are you doing!” He looked down at the sidewalk, where Dorian had just come around the corner, his arms full of shopping bags. 

“Putting up lights, obviously!” He called back, and grabbed the hammer.

“Be careful, you idiot!” He glanced back down at Dorian, and though Bull couldn’t see his expression from three stories up, he could hear the note of concern in his voice.

“I’ll be alright, really!” He tapped the last nail into place. He’d been hoping to finish this before Dorian got home, because, well.

“If you fall and hurt yourself I will never forgive you!” Dorian was starting to sound a bit shrill, and Bull heard the window next to him open. 

“Hi, Wynne,” he said with his best charming smile.

She stuck her head out and frowned at him. “Really, Bull. Even if you don’t fall, _he’s_ going to have a heart attack, and I don’t want to patch up either of you. My son and his friends are coming over too for Christmas soon. Besides, I’m _retired_.” Bull snorted. Wynne “retired” like Josephine took vacation days. 

Dorian was standing directly below Bull now, and Bull felt a bit bad. But he wasn’t about to fall out the window.

He unwrapped the string of lights from around his neck to twist them around the first nail. He had to lean down at an awkward angle, and felt the shift overbalance him just a moment too late. The bottom dropped out of his stomach and he wobbled for half a second, grabbing at the windowsill. His fingers slipped on the wood and he pitched over backwards with a startled yell.

It didn’t take long. He felt the cool shimmer of magic dropping over his skin at the same time that he met Wynne’s horrified eyes. He heard Dorian shout beneath him and the world turned green and sort of sideways. He hit the ground with a painful thump, but was actually far less dead than he had thought he’d be.

Dorian leaned over him, face frantic. “Are you all right?”

Bull groaned. “Yeah.” 

“In that case, you are abominably foolish and I am never speaking to you again.” Dorian’s hands were on his face, and he leaned his forehead against Bull’s. Bull clutched at his shoulders a little shakily. 

“Did you do some magic shit?” Bull asked when he got his breath back.

“Slowed you down a bit.” Dorian said. “Well, not you so much as, you know, time itself. Only in the area near you, of course.”

“You can do that?” 

“It was my thesis project. I did my doctoral work on thaumaturgy, now are you quite sure you’re all right?”

Bull made to stand, cautiously levering himself up. He made it partway to his feet, but when he moved his bad leg, he felt a sharp pain just behind his knee. He fell right back on his ass in the snow. “ _That’s_ not good,” he said tightly.

Wynne burst out the front door, hurrying over to them, a romance novel forgotten in her hand. She knelt next to Bull and moved his hand gently off his knee. He hadn’t even realized he’d been clutching at it. He grabbed Dorian’s hand instead.

Dorian allowed it, his fingers tense under Bull’s. The groceries that he’d bought were in a sad little pile behind him, and the paper bags were already too wet to hold up to anything. Bull focused on the bags and on Dorian’s expression in order to ignore the magic he could feel poking around in his leg. Dorian looked like he wanted to scold Bull, but was biting his tongue. Instead, he clutched at Bull’s fingers, sitting next to him in the snow like he hadn’t complained about getting a stain on those pants last time he’d worn them.

Wynne frowned at Bull’s leg. “I don’t think I should actually try to heal this now,” she said. “I’m not prepared to deal with the new injury in addition to the surgeries you’ve had. Dorian, you should call an ambulance, I’ll try to reduce the pain a bit.”

Bull considered arguing. He wasn’t _against_ magic, exactly, or Wynne using it, but it made him nervous all the same. But Dorian looked worried, but like he was trying not to show it, the corners of his mouth tight and his forehead furrowed, so when Wynne looked to him for permission, Bull nodded. The magic settled over his leg like a wet scarf, and it did hurt less, but it was uncomfortable. Like some bizarro magical ice pack. Bull focused really hard on not moving his leg.

Dorian was dialing his cell phone with one hand. He must have pulled his glove off with his mouth, because his still-gloved right hand had not left the Bull’s. He gave terse answers to the dispatcher’s questions, and then turned to Wynne. “Does he have a concussion?”

Wynne looked Bull in the eye for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Dorian relayed this information, then hung up. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.” 

“Aren’t you not supposed to do that?” Bull asked.

“Aren’t you not supposed to hang lights outside our apartment window?” Dorian snapped. He sighed immediately after. “I’m sorry darling. Just... rest, please? I-- I’m glad it wasn’t any worse.”

Bull smiled up at Dorian before using his free arm to pull him in for a kiss. “I’m glad you were here to catch me.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes. “If you use that stupid line about “falling for me” one more time…”

Wynne coughed delicately, and Dorian blushed. “If you two are all right waiting here, I’ll take those bags up to your apartment.”

Dorian looked conflicted, torn between inconveniencing her and leaving Bull’s side. Bull laughed and handed Wynne his keys. “Much obliged, ma’am. Thank you.” He and Dorian sat quietly on the sidewalk once she was gone. A couple people passed by, and they got a few weird looks, but Dorian stubbornly held onto Bull’s hand, almost defiantly, like he expected someone to comment on it. The only person who stopped to talk was a little boy who asked if they were waiting for Santa.

The ambulance arrived two minutes before the dispatcher claimed it would, which was good, because Dorian was starting to shiver next to him.

The EMTs, a freckled dwarf with auburn hair and a redheaded elf woman who appeared to speak only sign language, pulled the stretcher out of the back. They lifted Bull onto it with almost disturbingly little trouble. Bull wondered if there were some sort of enchantment involved or if the women just had arm muscles of steel. It was impressive.

“I need to go in with him,” Dorian told the EMTs. Bull had never heard him sound so nervous. “I’m his boyfriend.”

The dwarf just said, “Sure. Climb in and make sure we have room to work.” They didn’t pay any attention to Dorian, just asked Bull routine questions about allergies and gave him some painkiller in an IV. The elven woman dispelled Wynne’s magic and started poking around Bull’s knee with her own.

The last thing Bull remembered was Dorian’s face, eyes crinkled with worry but mouth smiling all the same, before he drifted off to sleep.


	20. Year Three: They Took A Trip To A Hospital...

Dorian was less than fond of hospitals. They reminded him too much of those shaky times in highschool and college when Felix kept _not getting better._ In and out of remission, in and out of the hospital until he joked weakly that the family should donate funds to get a revolving door named after him. Dorian had _not_ found that funny.

And even though Felix was stable now, and had been for years… the smell of antiseptic, the nurses bustling just within earshot… he’d been glad that it was just Bull’s leg because, well, it could have been so much worse. He was also, quietly, selfishly relieved that they wouldn’t have to stay overnight. Sleeping on those plastic chairs wasn’t comfortable.

He waited until Bull was settled and chatting cheerfully with the nurse checking his vitals before hunting down some coffee. It was sure to be vile, but he needed something to do with his hands. He came back to Bull’s little curtained off corner of the ER and almost ran into a doctor and her flock of interns and assistants on the way out. Strange.

He pushed by them and slipped into the chair next to the bed. Bull looked, of all things, a little guilty. “What’s that all about?” Dorian asked him, completely confused.

“Well,” Bull twisted his blankets a little, nervous.

“Is everything all right?” Anxiety clutched at Dorian’s chest. What if they’d found something awful in Bull’s blood work? What if his leg was hurt worse than they’d thought? It was bad already. What if… Bull’s hand landed heavily on his knee, startling him.

“It’s nothing bad, I promise.” The fear didn’t really dissipate. “It’s actually pretty great.” He stroked Dorian’s knee, looking into his eyes like _Dorian_ was the one who needed comforting. Ridiculous. Bull was the one who’d fallen out of a window and landed himself in the emergency room.

“That doctor, Morrigan, actually has this experimental procedure she’s been working on. It’s sort of like a knee replacement, but she’s using 3D printing and runes and I think maybe also technically blood magic. I didn’t want to ask too many questions about that part. But it’d likely fix almost everything wrong with my knee. She says I’m an ideal candidate for her to try it on since apparently my leg looks ‘like a drunken member of the karataam went at it in the middle of the jungle with some paracord and a dull pocket knife.’”

“Isn’t that what happened?” Dorian asked.

“Technically she was in the Beresaad,” Bull said blandly. “ _But_ , the procedure means that I’ll have to stay in the hospital for a day or two.” 

Dorian suddenly didn’t care about the smell of antiseptic at all.

Three days later, Dorian was sitting next to Bull’s bed again, this time in a private room, waiting for him to wake up. The surgery, according to Morrigan--who apparently did not have a last name, was a complete success, absolutely routine. They wanted to keep Bull for observation for a couple days and he’d have to go easy on his leg for a while, Dorian really didn’t need to stay with Bull the entire time he was out, it was really alright if he spent the night at home and came back in the morning, routine things that Dorian agreed with and filed away for later.

He’d brought his laptop with him, just to keep busy, but he kept looking around the room. The walls were so stark and white, so impersonal and _hospital_ that Dorian didn’t think Bull would appreciate waking up to this at all. It was too boring for Bull. He should do something about it.

He could… Yes. A perfect idea.

It took some doing. He started by calling Krem, then Josephine. They had a couple of hours, probably, and those two were the most efficient. He called Sera as well, and they corralled the rest of the Chargers. Dorian was quietly smug that everyone thought his plan was as good as he did.

He met them all in front of the hospital. In addition to all the the Chargers, Cadash showed up, and Josephine had brought Cole the barista, of all people. The group arrived in four separate cars, and it took three trips and cooperation from some very understanding nurses to move all their supplies to the hallway outside Bull’s room.

There was the slight issue of everyone not really fitting into the room at once. Dorian had quietly leveraged some of his Pavus money to get Bull a quality room, but it wasn’t actually that large. They stood in the hallway for a bit, confounded.

“All right,” said Dorian, since this was his idea, and no one else seemed to be taking charge. “We’ll do this in shifts?”

Quick and quiet, two people at a time. They weren’t sure when Bull would wake up, after all. The nurses chuckled when they passed them in hallway, lined up outside the room with their hands full. Josephine stood at the door with a clipboard she had stolen from work, refereeing the process. 

Cole had charmed his way behind the desk the nurses’ station, and was working on a large, cheery banner that said “FEEL BETTER, THE IRON BULL” because of course it did. When they’d exhausted their supplies, which took a solid hour and a half, all told, everyone signed the banner and Dorian and Josephine slipped into the room. They hung it on the wall facing Bull’s bed, so it would be the first thing he saw. As a finishing touch, Josephine produced her stencils and sponge paints from _somewhere_ , and and a sleigh and team of halla appeared on the window in record time.

Dorian bought everyone pie in the hospital cafeteria, which wasn’t a _great_ reward, but it was all he could think of. Then he returned to Bull’s room and settled into the plastic chair to wait. 

He typed three sentences in the article he was writing (Six Ways to Help a Friend in the Hospital!) and watched four cat videos before he heard Bull start to wake up. He closed his laptop and set it aside.

Bull blinked a few times before his eye settled on Dorian. “Hello, beautiful.”

Two years, and Bull could still make Dorian blush.

Bull looked fuzzily around the rest of the room. “Did Christmas throw up in here while I was out?”

They had been very exuberant with the decorations. Someone had wrapped tinsel around the guard rails of Bull’s hospital bed, the IV pole, and Bull’s horns. Krem, standing on Rocky’s shoulders had strung fake holly around the window and the doorframe. On the glass itself was Josephine’s giant stencil. Cole had even brought a tiny tree in a shiny red pot that he had tried to put on the bed before Dorian moved it to the table in the corner of the room. It sang terrible songs in a creepy mechanical voice if you walked in front of it, so Dorian had turned it towards the wall. 

Sera’s contribution had been a quantity of multicolored Christmas lights that could be best described as “all of them.”

Bull grinned when he saw the giant banner with everyone’s names on it. Josephine had also brought a card signed by everyone in the office. Dorian didn’t really know how she’d tracked down everyone in time.

“Do you like it?” He asked, a little hesitantly. In hindsight, he realized it might be a touch overwhelming.

Bull smiled up at him. “I love it. Did you call the whole office?”

“Just Josephine. And Krem. Also Sera and, well... more or less, I suppose.” 

Bull laughed, and Dorian smiled, letting go of the worry he had been holding onto since Bull was wheeled into the operating room.

“How does your leg feel?” 

“Like someone cut it open and replaced parts of it, sweetheart.” 

“Well.” 

“I’m fine, Dorian.” 

Dorian kissed him.


	21. Year Three: Six Adults Visit Santa Claus...

It was Sera’s idea first, but Bull was definitely on board right away. He had graduated from crutches to a cane (now wrapped in alternating stripes of red and white duct tape-- Dorian had been unappreciative of Bull’s it’s a candy cane! Get it Dorian? Dorian? jokes for the whole week, no matter how often Bull repeated them) and was desperate to get out of the apartment. Dorian was a very attentive nurse, but really, Bull _could_ make it to the bathroom on his own now, thanks very much.

“We’re going _where_? I can’t possibly have heard you correctly.” Dorian looked equal parts horrified and fascinated. Sera danced impatiently from foot to foot while Dorian slowly wound his scarf around his neck. Bull struggled a bit with his boots, but everyone had learned not to try to help him anymore. 

“We’re going to see Santa, apparently.” Krem looked almost as skeptical as Dorian.

“We’re goin,” Sera corrected, “to see the smurshy dwarf workin’ at Santaland. Also Santa.”

“I still find the idea of some old man watching everyone’s every move disturbing.” Dorian slipped his gloves onto his hands and one hand into Bull’s. “But lead on, I suppose.”

“You don’t know creepy until you know about the Elf on the Shelf.” Krem told him as they tromped down the stairs.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “That sounds racist.”

“It’s mostly there to teach children love is conditional. The racism is just a bonus.”

Bull had no idea where Krem had found his odious purple Peugeot, but he loved the damn thing. At least all four of them (and Bull’s candy cane) were able to fit inside it, which is more than could be said for Bull’s truck or Dorian’s Prius. Sera had three bikes and a Vespa, so she was no help. Dorian grumbled about the color, but certainly not the comfort.

 

Dorian didn’t look any happier once he was actually confronted with Santa Claus, but Bull cajoled both him and Krem into the line. It involved maybe more wheedling and playing up his tragic injury than he’d admit to later, but a victory was a victory. Stitches and Grim sidled up to them a few minutes later, handing out cups of “hot cocoa.”

Most of the people around them were parents with toddlers, and a few sniggering college students from Warden U. It was one pm on a Wednesday, after all. A lot of the staff around were dwarves, including the long-suffering Santa, which made Bull feel especially tall.

Sera was chatting up a dwarf (probably The dwarf that prompted the trip to this specific Santaland) in what appeared to be some sort of vaguely racist attempt at a historic elf costume near a herd of live halla. Well, two live halla. They didn’t seem to like Sera very much. Either that or “I like you” was what halla meant when they growled at someone and spit. 

The toddler in front of them burst into tears. Bull wasn’t sure if it was fear of strangers or if the kid was overjoyed to meet an actual legend. Either way, his mother lifted him bodily into Santa’s lap, and he froze for a moment before the screams started up again, louder. “I hope you aren’t expecting me to sit on this stranger’s lap,” Dorian muttered under his breath.

“Nah, you only do that for me,” Bull said.

Dorian gave him a wry smile and a shoulder bump. 

Bull didn’t push him any further, just smiled to see how comfortable Dorian was.They stood close together in the group of their friends. Dorian’s fingers brushed Bull’s arm hesitantly a few times, and Bull regretted that his hands were full of cane and aggressively alcoholic hot chocolate. Usually, he’d be able to rest a hand on Dorian’s shoulder in a way that could seem friendly from the outside, but had actually taken them quite a while to build up to. He leaned a bit closer towards Dorian to compensate, and was surprised when he felt Dorian’s hand hook over his elbow. Dorian was staring resolutely ahead, but his cheeks were tinged pink, and Bull felt a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the hot drink in his hand.

When they reached him, Santa looked at their group of five grown men with a resigned sigh. Grim wordlessly handed him a flask of “hot chocolate.” 

“Can you do that?” Dorian asked Bull incredulously. “It must break some sort of moral code to give Santa Claus hot chocolate laced with peppermint schnapps.” 

“Shhh,” Krem actually giggled. Perhaps schnapps with a tiny bit of chocolate would be a more accurate descriptor. 

Santa laughed heartily behind his huge fake beard and tucked the flask away. He beckoned them all forward. Krem tripped up the steps to Santa’s giant armchair and face planted right in his lap.

Stitches helped him up with exaggerated care, allowing Krem to splay himself all over Santa’s lap, then sat down on top of Krem. 

Dorian stared at them in frozen horror, his hand tight on Bull’s arm. “Is this... normal Santa visitation behavior?”

“Santa,” Krem stage-whispered. “Santa, do you know what I want for Christmas?” 

Santa chortled. He didn’t quite have the trademark “Ho-ho-ho” down, but his eyes twinkled merrily at Dorian and Bull from under his regulation red hat and white beard.

“What Cremisius?” Santa boomed. 

“How does he know Krem’s name? Bull?” Dorian was looking increasingly distressed.

Bull shrugged. “He’s Santa, he knows everything.” 

“For Christmas, my friends and I want…” Krem grinned wickedly at Bull, maybe not quite as drunk as he was pretending to be. Bull felt a sudden jolt of nerves. Krem wouldn’t dare-- “We want Bull and Dorian to get MARRIED.” 

Santa ho-ho-ho’d and said, “I’ll see what I can do, Cremisius. Gifts like that can be tricky, you know.”

“But Santa that’s all we want!” Stitches slid boozily to the floor. Bull chanced a glance at Dorian. 

He was avoiding Bull’s eye and blushing furiously, the color obvious even under his dark skin. But he hadn’t pulled his arm away. Bull took that to be a very good sign. 

“Santa will see what he can do,” Santa told Stitches. 

“G’d’nuff,” Grim grunted, and kissed Santa full on the mouth. 

Several things happened at once after that. Dorian turned to Bull, something accusatory halfway out of his mouth, Rocky’s Santa beard was knocked entirely askew by Grim’s passionate thank you, and Sera screeched loudly from the halla enclosure, scrambling away while yelling enough profanities to get each of them individually banned from Santaland for the next ten years.

Everyone (aside from Rocky, who had fixed his beard and begun feigning innocence in record time) was ushered sternly away from the shell-shocked children, and told in no uncertain terms to stay away by an angry security guard. 

Dorian retreated into his own space again, hands tucked firmly into his pockets. He kept glancing at Bull out of the corner of his eye, and hurrying behind him, Bull was unable to read his expression. 

Before they left the park entirely, Bull saw the dwarf Sera had been talking to take a running leap in order to tap her on the shoulder and hand her a slip of paper. It looked as if it might have halla print. Success, in one form or another, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> U would like to say that she has visited Santa with friends as an adult and the experience was A+ 10/10 would recommend. 
> 
> Also, A and U would both like to thank everyone who sent some in for their beautiful latke pictures. We will both be posting our own latke pictures as soon as we make some and in the meantime we are always happy to see more of yours. (or anything you guys think we might find interesting, really. We like food and cute pictures and also laser pointers and we may in fact be large cats.)
> 
> A needs to add that the Elf on the Shelf is terrifying and clearly prepares children for Big Brother-level supervision. It is a demon (I am so glad I was raised only tangentally to that part of Christmas)


	22. Year Three: He Thought He Was a Great Spy (Part Two)...

There was shuffling in the living room. Dorian was cross-legged on the bed, frowning at the latest interdepartmental memo about appropriate holiday music. Being promoted to Science Editor had its perks, but he was also expected to weigh in on how many times Mariah Carey could be played in a row. The damn song was already stuck in his head.

Last week, Sera had rigged the office PA system to play “All I Want for Christmas is You” seven times in a row. It was followed by one touching rendition of “Carol of the Bells” that might have actually brought a tear of relief to Cassandra’s eye. “Carol of the Bells,” of course, had been followed by roughly eleven more plays of “All I Want for Christmas” before Vivienne had stood up and, without the slightest fanfare, called a massive wave of electricty to her hand and shorted out the entire office PA system. 

“Hey Dorian,” Bull singsonged. “I got you an early Christmas present.”

“Is it your penis, Bull?” Dorian didn’t look up. 

“Aww, you’re gonna ruin the surprise! And I wrapped it up so nicely for you!”

Dorian glanced up from his paperwork and nearly snorted himself off the bed. Bull had, in fact, put a large red Christmas bow on his erection. That was not new. In fact Bull had already used the bow thing twice this holiday season. What _was_ new was the stunningly green pair of horns Bull was now sporting.

“Bull, have you by any chance been tampering with your presents?” Dorian smiled at him, closing his laptop.

“No, why?”

“Not at all?” Dorian asked innocently. “Not even trying for a sneak peak at one of the boxes I left under the tree?”

“Are you questioning my honor?” Bull struck a dramatic pose, his hands clasped over his heart.

“I am.” 

Bull pouted. It was a ridiculous image: Giant, naked Qunari; giant, bright green horns; _giant_ red bow. Dorian was just as ridiculous, because all he wanted to do was kiss Bull.

He beckoned, and Bull came forwards, crawling dramatically up the bed. Dorian kissed him, because there was nothing in the world stopping him from doing it, and wasn’t that magnificent. Then he murmured, “Darling, are you aware I enchanted those packages?”

“I know. I couldn’t get the damn paper off. Or uh,” Bull cleared his throat, “I wouldn’t have been able to. You know. If I had tried to.”

Dorian snorted. “I can’t beleive you think you’re sneaky. Also, when you touched the wrapping paper, it turned your horns green.”

Bull froze. “You’re shitting me.”

Dorian cackled.

Bull practically vaulted off the bed. (His knee seemed to be better every day.) He examined himself in the mirror on Dorian’s desk. He rubbed at his horns curiously, but the color didn’t come off on his fingers.

Bull began laughing. “That’s amazing!” he said. “I’m like a Christmas tree! This is so cool!”

Dorian groaned. “It was meant as a deterrent, Bull.”

“It’s so badass! I’m like a Christmas Dragon! How long will it last?”

“Forty-eight hours or so.” Dorian leaned back against the headboard. “Will you come back over here?”

“I need to take a picture for Krem first.” He bustled back out into the living room, still nude, and Dorian kicked his legs out and leaned back against the headboard. He resigned himself to a bit of a wait. Also to the fact that Krem had likely still seen Bull naked a larger number of times than him.

Bull returned, crawling once more, from the foot up the length of the bed to kiss Dorian soundly. Seemingly, he did so just for the simple joy of being able to crawl now. Also to make Dorian laugh. Dorian never quite got over the sheer number of things that Bull did simply to make him laugh. 

Bull knelt over him, his hands on either side of Dorian’s head, and smiled like Dorian was the best present he’d ever gotten. Bull leaned down to kiss him again, and Dorian _almost_ kept a straight face. Bull’s lips touched his, and Dorian caught a glimpse of bright green out of the corner of his eye, and collapsed into helpless giggles.

He covered his face with his hands, trying to stammer out an apology between fits of laughter. He felt Bull’s wide fingers on his own, and cracked open one eye to look at him. Bull was leaning back on his heels, grinning even wider. “Don’t be sorry,” Bull told him, “it’s cute.” 

Dorian glanced down at their joined hands. “Oh god, I got your nails too,” he laughed until tears pricked at the backs of his eyes, “The spell must have affected all the keratin in your body,” he told Bull, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

Bull examined his hand with fascination, then checked his toenails too. “You could make a ton of money with this trick,” he told Dorian seriously. “It’s like a next level manicure.”

Dorian started chuckling again, and didn’t stop until Bull started kissing him in earnest. He didn’t really stop then, either. When Bull’s mouth moved down his neck, his nails slid up Dorian’s side, making him shiver and laugh at the mix of sensations. He let Bull maneuver them down the bed until Dorian was on his back and Bull was laid out over him. Bull was always trying to get him to laugh during sex, tickling him, and making stupid jokes like the _bows_ , which. Oh, Bull was definitely still wearing the bow.

He was still fully dressed, but another shiver ran up his spine as Bull nipped at his ear and pressed a leg between Dorian’s. He wriggled against Bull, trying to work his shirt off without either one of them having to move. The attempt ended with Bull having to lunge and catch Dorian before he rolled off the bed entirely. After that was more laughter, as Bull kissed down Dorian’s torso and the ridiculous green horns started staring him right in the face.

Dorian was absolutely head over heels for the man, and there was a wonderful sort of feedback loop of love and laughter and love and love and love. It was nearly overwhelming sometimes, it could make his heart race and his breath stutter when Bull just looked at him the right way. Now, when Bull slid a hand under the waistband of his pants and tugged them, Dorian was grabbing at his shoulders and pressing his hips up into Bull’s warm, familiar fingers without a thought.

They hadn’t precisely fallen into a pattern over the years, not enough that it was predictable. It was more like, they knew each other. Dorian knew that when he ran a fingertip over Bull’s ears he could expect Bull’s hands to tighten, and that if he followed that movement across the back of Bull’s skull, then Bull would sigh his name like it was something beautiful. Bull knew just where to press his lips, and then his teeth, to the skin of Dorian’s inner thigh to make him arch his back and press a hand over his mouth to catch the moan that shivered out of him.

When he did that, Dorian knew, Bull would reach up and take that hand out of Dorian’s control. Sometimes he’d move it to his horns, sometimes he’d pause what he was doing and kiss Dorian’s fingers; tonight, he moved Dorian’s hand to his own cock, and left it to its own devices tangled in the bow.

The bow was a familiar game now too. Dorian usually made a show of it, slow and teasing. He’d touch the ribbon and not Bull, watching Bull’s face and hands tensing in anticipation until Dorian at the ends so it unraveled and fell away completely. He’d say something like “It’s just what I’ve always wanted, darling,” and Bull would laugh like he’d told the best joke in the world. And then, usually, Bull would fuck him, deep and hard like waiting two minutes for Dorian to play had taken all the control he could muster. 

They’d teased and explored all the edges of the restraint Dorian had told Bull to exercise on their first night together. There were nights that Dorian was in charge, and Bull would wait for his command to move so much as a finger. There were also nights that Dorian let Bull make all the decisions for him, and all he had to do was lose himself to sensation. Most nights, though, they just breathed in tandem, and let their knowledge of each other and what the other wanted, needed, be the driving force.

Tonight, he tugged at the ribbon, letting it fall without fanfare before reaching up to stroke Bull’s face. “just what I’ve always wanted,” he whispered, and something in his throat tightened until he could scarcely breathe.

“Me too,” Bull murmured, and he sounded so serious that Dorian couldn’t bear to not kiss him. His eyes fell closed, and Dorian soaked in everything about Bull tonight. The way he breathed against Dorian’s mouth, the way his breath caught when Dorian moved his hands away from his face and down his body. He felt the way Bull smiled against his neck when Dorian twisted away to grope through the nightstand drawers. 

“Where do you want me, sweetheart?” Bull asked softly. Dorian rolled onto his back again and looked up at him. 

“Lie back, darling,” Dorian decided, pushing on Bull’s shoulder until he rolled over and settled against the pillows. Dorian couldn’t help a chuckle when he was confronted again with the green horns, but he knelt between Bull’s legs and kissed him until they were both a little breathless.

Dorian kept kissing him as he slicked his fingers, and he leaned his free hand on Bull’s chest as he slipped one inside. Bull groaned against him, his whole body responding, and Dorian smiled when he felt Bull’s fingers brush against his own before Bull wrapped them around his dick. Bull stroked himself almost in time with Dorian’s careful movements, smiling into Dorian’s lips. Bull’s hand started to move against Dorian’s stomach in the slow rhythm that he liked, tightening when Dorian added a second finger. His breath came in erratic huffs against Dorian’s throat as Dorian worked his fingers deeper. 

Dorian watched Bull’s face for discomfort, but followed his whispered requests for more, and deeper, and _please, sweetheart, fuck me now._

Dorian liked to make Bull happy, liked to give him what he wanted. The fact that it was what Dorian wanted, too, well. That was just a magnificent coincidence. He slid into Bull, and it was slick and warm and Dorian always had to take a deep breath or two, bent forward with his head against Bull’s chest. Bull always looked so surprised when Dorian fit himself in, like he was proud of Dorian just for being there. 

Bull’s nails-- his still green nails-- dug into bone at the backs of Dorian’s shoulders when Dorian began to move inside him, and Dorian hoped they left a mark. Imagined that one day he might have a narrow ridge of scar there, just there, where Bull had loved him so well. 

Tonight, Dorian moved slow and deep in Bull, breathing out promises to the tips of Bull’s fingers that they’d always have a place to come home to.

His orgasm snuck up on him, as it sometimes did when he was wrapped up in the way Bull breathed his name and traced his face with an unsteady hand. He kissed Bull’s wrist, and felt Bull’s hand drift down his side. It landed on his hip, and guided him gently out. Bull pulled Dorian up his body, one steadying hand on his hip, one around his cock. They breathed in unison for a moment before Dorian tipped over the edge, gasping as Bull stroked him harder. He dropped a hand onto Bull’s shoulder, straddling Bull’s waist, and watched as he came across Bull’s chest. He blinked up at Bull, a little dazed.

Dorian knelt down and sucked Bull to completion, allowing Bull’s orgasm to join his own. Bull smeared the mess around with two fingers, a lazy smile on his face. He looked pleased with the results, and made no motions to clean himself up. Dorian fetched a washcloth and wiped both Bull and himself down, kissing Bull gently before throwing the cloth into the laundry pile and curling up under the crook of Bull’s arm. 

“Hey Dorian,” Bull murmured.

“Mmm?”

Dorian felt something limp and silky light on his shoulder. 

“You’re just what I’ve always wanted, too.” 

Dorian shrugged the bow off with a groan, but he was smiling as he drifted into sleep.


	23. Year Three: Really, All Area Man Wants for Christmas is You...

Bull hadn’t been this excited for Christmas morning since he was a kid. He was up earlier than usual, though Dorian, who had never gotten the hang of mornings, groaned and hid his face in Bull’s abandoned pillow. 

“I thought one of the benefits of not having children was being permitted to sleep late on Christmas morning.” He managed to make the whole sentence sound like a continuation of the moan. It was an incredible talent, honestly. Bull thought it was adorable. 

Dorian continued to grumble, loud enough that Bull was able to hear him in the kitchen. He even managed to keep grumbling through red velvet pancakes with green cream cheese sauce, though it was a much more pleased timber of grumble. 

Dorian eyed the coffee, pancakes and flower that Bull brought to the bedroom on a tray, and watched suspiciously when Bull cleared it away, humming “All I Want for Christmas is You.” 

“You’re planning something.” He said as Bull wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, handed him his laptop, and slid back into bed.

“It’s Christmas, Dorian. Of course I’m planning something. Did you _forget_ to plan something?” 

“My plan was to keep you from snooping on your presents so that you’d actually be surprised and touched by my thoughtfulness. The second phase is you showing me how much you appreciate my excellent gift giving skills.”

“Oh, I appreciate your skills, sweetheart.” 

Dorian looked at him over the top his glasses. “You’d better.” Bull kissed him.

After a good half hour of further... distractions, they made it, at least partially clothed, to the living room.

Bull was genuinely surprised by his copy of _Carmenum di Amatus,_ a book of Tevinter love poetry. It was a brand new edition, translated by a popular poet in the Free Marches, with a new foreword and notes by an editor who even he’d heard of. He knew that it was entirely revamped, because he’d found the first edition of the anthology in the used bookshops that had served him so well the year before. He handed Dorian that gift just a little chagrined, but Dorian just laughed and put the books next to each other on the shelf, sandwiched between the essay books from last year and their five total signed copies of Varric’s new book. 

Dorian reached for the large box nestled somewhat behind the tree, and Bull grabbed his hand. “Hey! I had to wait until last last year. It’s your turn this year.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes at him, but left off the gift. “Well, why don’t you go on, then?”

Bull unwrapped a box roughly the size and shape of a nice wine bottle to discover it empty but for a note taped to the bottom. It read:

_Darling,_  
 _It feels a bit like cheating to get you the same present twice, but you liked it so well the first time.... Your studio space is paid up through the year. And yes, I was your secret santa two years ago. I am honestly astonished you still haven’t figured it out on your own._

_Merry Christmas and Love Always,_

_Dorian_

_P.S. Merrill says that we make a lovely couple and that if we ever break up she will cry. She also wants to know if you are still interested in one of Fen’Harel’s puppies. Please tell me we are naming it something non-sacrilegious and perhaps getting a bigger apartment first._

Bull looked up from the note, honestly incredulous. “Why do you let me think I’m the sneaky one?” He was _not_ about to admit that the secret santa thing had been bothering him for a full two years now.

“It seemed important to your self esteem, darling.” 

“How am I even supposed to thank you for something like this?”

Dorian smiled. “I can’t say I have too much experience with such things, your luminous self excepted of course, but I am told that in a good relationship, one doesn’t really keep score.”

“Aww, I love you too.” He leaned across the couch and kissed Dorian. “Now open your present.” 

Dorian got up and got them both more coffee, and took his time settling back onto the couch. He picked up the large box and shook it gently, a considering look on his face. “It’s rather light… it could be some sort of fabric? Oh Bull, are you finally replacing that hideous duvet? How romantic!”

Bull rolled his eyes. “I love that duvet. Plus there’s no way I could cram a duvet into a sweater box.”

“We do have a habit of fitting things in the unlikeliest places,” Dorian said sweetly, a glint in his eye.

“Hey! That’s my joke!” 

Dorian carefully removed the wrapping paper, which, along with the box, was recycled from an actual sweater that Livia had sent Dorian. Bull’s thriftiness got him a quick peck of approval. Dorian sighed when he saw the smaller box nestled in the tissue paper Bull had used to make sure it didn’t slide around. “I suppose this is a ‘thing’ now, isn’t it.”

“Hey, we call those ‘things’ traditions, and if it is one it’s your fault.”

“So next year, I’m going to have to find something tiny to put inside four other boxes?” He snorted. “Have you ever considered piercing your ears?”

Bull snickered. “It’s funny ‘cause you think there’s only four boxes.” 

Dorian groaned. He got through the second box, about the size of a large book, and the third, which was detailed cherry wood embossed with an image of a lily. Bull had acquired it in a materials trade with another artist in Merrill’s studio space. Inside that were two tightly-fit boxes of the sort one might use to carry cupcakes or pastries, and then the box that had contained Bull’s latest online rivet haul. Dorian lifted out a small bag made of iridescent silk. He raised a wry eyebrow, but Bull didn’t move. He’d put _work_ into this.

Out of the bag came the seventh box, the exact same little one Dorian had given Bull his key in last year. Bull hadn’t been sure Dorian would recognize it but, judging from his fond, almost misty look, he did. At the eighth box, Dorian looked less fond and more ready to hurl both it and Bull out the nearest window. 

“Bull, is this a fucking Rivaini puzzle box?” 

Bull grinned. “Yep. Well, not actually Rivaini. I made it myself. But Isabela helped with advice and plans and stuff so... in the tradition?” 

“And I suppose you expect me to solve this.”

“Well, your gift _is_ inside of it. So up to you, really.” 

Dorian looked as if he were seriously debating just setting the box on their coffee table and going to get lunch instead. Finally he gave a soft huff and set to work. 

Bull had considered making it absolutely hellish, but the size had upped the difficulty, both in making and solving it. He’d sanded and stained and cut a fucking three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle, and it fit neatly in the palm of Dorian’s hand. Bull honestly considered it his magnum opus. Well, in terms of blood, sweat and tears. There was one, slightly more important thing that he’d made.

For all of Dorian’s chagrin, he did seem to appreciate the beauty of it. He certainly examined it from every angle. Bull sat back against the couch, doing his best to look less anxious than he was beginning to feel. He finished his mostly-full cup of coffee taking casual sips, which might not have helped his heart rate. Luckily, Dorian was too busy muttering Tevene curses at the box to notice Bull’s jitters.

It was only a four step box, but it took Dorian a good ten minutes to find the slender little key built into the box at step two, then another five to figure out where it went. 

Finally, he pressed the right notch, possibly by accident, and the keyhole slid out of the side. Dorian turned the key, then had a few seconds of confusion before he figured out that the whole upper half of the thing simply tugged off to reveal the center compartment. 

There, nestled on the velvet lining, was the ring.


	24. Year Three: The Answer May Surprise You

Half the lights on the tree sparked and died. The other half started blinking.

There was no air in the room.

Dorian held a part of the box in each hand, fingers clenched tight. He did not give his hands permission to shake, but they did, just a little.

“Bull,” he said, and his voice shook without his permission as well, “is this--are you-- are you quite certain you know what you're doing here?”

Bull slid to one knee in front of Dorian. The gesture didn't seem to pain him at all. He cupped Dorian’s hands in his own, warm and large. “Marry me?” He asked. 

It was all so simple when he said it like that. As calm and inevitable as falling asleep. It was nothing like Dorian had imagined it. Or. Well. Like he would have imagined it had he bothered to waste his energy on such a silly thing. 

“Did you make this yourself?” Dorian asked, fingers scarcely a breath from touching the ring. He didn't make contact with it. Once he touched it everything would be real again. He didn't want everything to be real again. 

“Yeah,” Bull said. The ring was simple gold, with an inlay of dark wood and an inscription on the interior that Dorian couldn’t read. Like everything Bull made, its simplicity belied its brilliance. Like everything Bull made for Dorian, it was beautiful. 

He still didn’t touch it. Bull fiddled with the hem of Dorian’s pajama pants, starting to look nervous. “Sweetheart, I don’t want to rush you, but I really--”

“Yes.” Dorian said abruptly. “I--Yes, of course.”

Bull’s face relaxed into one of those slow, easy smiles. “Good,” he said. “I would have been real sad if you’d said no.”

“Real sad?” Dorian asked dryly. 

“Yeah,” he answered without a hint of irony. “I love you, you know.”

“I do know.” 

Bull touched the ring, picked it up and slid it onto Dorian’s hand. Everything became real again. Everything was exactly the same. 

Bull was babbling a little. “When I told Krem I was gonna ask you he had this whole lecture about traditions and contracts so I gave up on him and asked Felix what he thought you’d like.”

Felix. Dorian was going to have to call Felix. And Livia. And _Gereon_. Really, he should invite them for a visit before the big event-- before he got-- before they-- He stared at the ring on his hand.

“And then I got _another_ lecture because I suggested we might have to find an alternative to that chair-lifting dance…” Bull must have noticed that Dorian had stopped listening. “also something about a hoolpa? Hubba? I don’t know. Krem laughed and said I was gonna get my horns stuck in it. Hula?” 

Dorian laughed. “A chuppah.” Now that it was real, the plans Dorian hadn’t realized he’d been making were crystal clear. The canopy would be white; he’d have to find some appropriately gauzy fabric. Flowers, definitely. Maybe he could find some tasteful compromise between common sense and the giant pink hibiscuses Bull would inevitably suggest. Purple, perhaps. Something that wouldn’t look too ridiculous when Bull really did get his horns tangled in it.

“Hey Dorian?” Bull was still on the floor, one hand cradling Dorian’s fingers brushing across the ring. He looked brilliantly happy, his eye crinkling under the force of his smile. _I did that_ , Dorian thought. _I make him happy_. Bull reached gentle fingers up to Dorian’s face. “Can I kiss you?”

It was very easy to answer that question. He pulled Bull up to him and tried to communicate everything he had so much trouble saying. Bull came easily, and Dorian brushed the side of his face gently, so gently, both of them still trembling. 

The motion of Dorian’s hand spun the ring. Bull was far too skilled to allow the inscription to feel anything but smooth against Dorian’s finger, but it reminded him nonetheless. He pulled the ring off, tilting it to better examine the inside. 

“Nunc Sico Quid Sit Amor,” Bull said quietly, watching Dorian’s face. “It means--”

“I know what it means, Bull.” Dorian was perfectly capable of speaking his native language, thank you very much.

There was a silence in which Dorian slid to the floor with Bull. “Now I know what it is to love.” He said it in common, then in Tevene, then in broken Qunlat, again and again until Bull kissed him quiet once more. 

They stayed there, on the thick carpet next to their perfectly nice couch. There would be time to figure out the couch later. 

Bull was watching the snow pile up on the windowsill, His eyes distant. He was probably thinking about how many people would call in “sick” the next morning, if he should bring in extra nights for the office, if _they_ should call in sick. He saw Dorian watching him and pressed a soft kiss against his cheek. There were faint lines forming at the corners of Bull’s eyes and mouth, and Dorian wanted more than anything else to find out how deep they would go. He could see it suddenly. Dorian was going to grow old with this silly, wonderful man and he was going to adore every moment of it. Quite abruptly, he began to cry. 

Bull pulled back. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

“It’s nothing, really,” Dorian said, feeling quite silly, “it’s just--I only just realized it, but, you’ll be there when we’re older. I’ll go gray and you’ll go bald for real and we’ll both get terribly fat and putter around the garden together and _you’ll be there,_ Bull. We’ll be together the whole time.”

“That was sort of the point of the whole me proposing marriage thing, yeah.”

“Oh, would you shush? I can’t believe I’ve just agreed to spend the rest of my life listening to your nonsense.” 

Bull took his hand. “You’ll love it.”

“Every second, darling.”

* * *

  
All of these Illustrations were done by the wonderful Paintbrunch. [Visit them on tumblr](http://paintbrunch.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's everything, folks! Merry Christmas! (And happy belated Hanukkah) 
> 
> Thank you everyone who read and commented, you were ridiculously supportive.
> 
> Happy holidays,
> 
> Love from Team AU

**Author's Note:**

> Say hi to U at [Eugenideswalksintoabar](http://eugenideswalksintoabar.tumblr.com) and A at [Acheesecakewrites](http://acheesecakewrites.tumblr.com)
> 
> As always, our main projects are linked [here (U)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3927910/chapters/8797813) and [here (A)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4152159/chapters/9367653).


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